Decatur Democrat, Volume 26, Number 39, Decatur, Adams County, 22 December 1882 — Page 4

REAL ANGELS. I'm a very plain and homely man, J u«t a leetle old or ho, And the rhoumatiz troubles me, off and on. Whether I will or no. And ho whenever that comes to pass It dri es me almost in a craze, To think of the ots of time 1 The many working days. For my o d woman Mee, and I. Aureo on this, d’ye see, Th.v I sbßl be sick when she is well. And I bo well when she; For it‘s little of work tliat she can do. When well or ill, for btead, Yet many a sti ch her fingers take From sunrise time till bed. Ard so ’tin no disgrace t' ns. With the rheumatiz and all, Thst sometimes Meg, for hunger’s sake, Should h ve to pawn her shawl. Lu- then ’tis woful hard to me. When he win er nights are cold, F- r 1 miss the -haw! on my old legs—--11 the w< rds are not too bold. Yet Meg and I get somehow- on, Forp<v<t\ isn’t a crime, And we never think n thing about it Until it comes Thank giving time. For we have a memory, M g anil I, Os 'i h-uiksgiving long ago, When we w re b - h st ong and hearty, And never knew want or woe. And so it happens that Meg and I Have been waiting in hope and fear, To see if the '1 hankagiving coming Will be like the one last yea ; For then we were all right happy, Meg and the neighbors and I, And the very remembrance of it Is enough to m ; <ke one cry. It was all on the Thakagiving morning; When we hadn’t a loaf of bread, And Meg and I. to keep life in, Were oblig’d to go to bed. The shawl it was in the pawn-shop, An t w? hadn't a cent—not we; So we thought it the hardest Thanksgiving We ever had chanced to see. Meg snt in the bed a-sewing, 1 reading the Bib'e to she, When mere came at the door a tapping Like a woodpecker tapping a tree. Meg cri d for the knock to enter, And a rosy face ]>eeped in, With hazel ex es and clustering curls. White teeth and a dimpled chin. There was sunshine in a moment To brush awa the gloom, And a vo ce bse an angel s whisper Went sweetly 'hr ugh the room. It said, “Accept this turkey, S- me i otatoes and coal, if you please; It is merry Thanksgiving day, And no one must starve Or freeze." Oh. wasn’t up directly, But the angel had vanished in air, And a s r .<-ut man stood with a bushel of coal, An 1 the turkev it lay on a chair. And didn’t wo have a feast In a good old-sash oned way; Arid wasn’t we u arm and jui i y fed That glorious Thanksgiving day I So that is my tale all told— A homely tale at the best— A tale tat Meg and I rei eat Each night when we g • to rest. I have h ard of angels v. ith wings, VV ho noiselessij- flit through the air. But th ange. ■ f angels that ve like best Left a tu: key upon the chair. A Brave Deed. l Ada Carfit wns decidedly the belle of Shaiboiough; aid, as that small but bustling Midland town had a reputation among its neighbors for lovely lasses, the disti ction was a great one. In figure the girl was somewhat small and slight; but in eatnre she had attained almost to perfection, both of outline and of tint. She had a lofty, well-proportioned brow, around winch rippled rich waves of auburn hair. She had eyes of dreamy blue, cheeks just sufficient y tinged with delicate carmine to throw into relief the pearly whiteness of her teeth. The worst of it was, she knew that she was beautiful, and the knowledge spoiled her. Ada was the only chi d of a wealthy SI arborough manufacturer, and added to her ether char us that of being a very considerable heiress. Naturally she had of suitors not a few. But Ladies Clara Ve e de Vere can exist in much lower circles that tl at of the poet’s faulty heroine, and Ada Carfit had caught the vice of a proud coquetry. She re ished her power over susceptible hearts, and did her best to< xtend it. The breath of homage was a life to her. She led her wooers ge fly on till the toils were ail around them, and then, of a sudden, they found an impalpable, impassable barrier erected, aud Ada’s smiles were for newer comers. It was an amusement, half the zest of being, to her; she never wasted an anxious thought on what it might mean to her victims. Men were strong, and must protect themselves. The last to enter the charmed circle had been a youth from the North, who m appearance and manners was certainly at a disadvantage with those whom he quickly came to consider his rivals. Boger Herlestone was two-and-twenty; but his thick-set, burly figure, and his abundance of beard, made him look years older. He was h avy in feature, uncertain ‘in movement, and awkward in address. As the nephew of Mr. Marston, of Marston & Marsh, cotton-mill owners, his prospects were very good. But the knowledge of this fact somehow failed to give him the needed selfconfidence. Roger's many blunders made him, to a large extent, the butt of Ins male acquaintance, and it was probably this that caused Ada Carfit, out of sheer opposition, to treat him with marked favor. Philip Dare, the lawyer, had likened Roger to the proverbial “bull in a china shop,” and Philip Dare should be made to b te his lip with vexation at her de eronce to the despised oue. But once again she was kind only to be cruel. “I cannot tell whether she cares for me or whether she does not,” said Roger Herlestone to his younger brother, Martin. “Sometimes I think one thing and sometimes another. But this I am sure of, she is all the world to me.” “Then I'd ask her, old fellow.” “Bnt—but—she has always so many round her. Ada Carfit is the queen of a large circle, and I ” “Have been the best of sons, the best of brothers, and, I have no doubt, would make the best of husbands." “And I,” said Koger, resuming slowly, and paying no heed to this enthusiastic praise, “am a rough and homely man, who has almost as good a right to dream of becoming Prime Minister as of winning such a wife.” “Nonsense. Roger! Don’t be so unnecessarily modest. You are just as good as she, and the girl must know it.” “Then," and the elder's tone changed suddenly, “I'll put it to the test and see. If Ada leftises me, it will be just another dream dispelled, and I shall face the worst.” The opportunity soon came. The two were thrown much together at a summer picnic party, and some J malign genius made Ada more than ever gracious. It s-emed to her that she had succeeded in thawing the ice of her admire 's awkwardness and the studied coroi liments he pad her awoke tne i gle.m of a sunny, satisfied smile. She little suspected the commotion that was working beneath the surface. ; '1 hey ha>i wandered out of si ht and hearing of the rest, on pretense of ex- | smiting s 'me curiously shaped rocks. “How still the air is. under the sun!” sa u ~d , sto;> ng at a low fence that > crossed the hillside. For a moment her companion did not answer, »nd she cast a casual glance upd at his face. What Ada saw there made her start aid <-li ht y shiver. "Ye-," he said, with a hoarse and Blighty effort, “this is just the turn of

the season, and this hush is frequent and very -uggestive then. You and I have come to a turning-point, too, Miss I Carfit, and 1 must break the stillness by a very important question. Can you not guess what that is -the story I have to tell, M ss Carfit—Ada?” "No, no. We had better return, I ; think. We shall be lost, Mr. Herlestone.” Ada was keeping her composure wonderfully, and she hoped by this coldlyspoken hint the confession she feared I might be averted. She did not know the speaker. “Wait an instant, Ada,” Roger cried, abandoning the last shelter of reserve; “I have this to tell, that you are more to me than any one else in the wide world can ever be. I love you, Ada—surely you must have divined it! Can you love me back again, however little! XVill you some day be my wife?” His words were coming swiftly enough now, and his beseeching eyes ; emphasized their truth. The man was transformed, and a faint response of admiration was raised ; in the girl's heart. But i e was—could lie—no mere than others she had rejected. This triumph she was used to, and gloried in ; though usually she had been better on her guard, u..J stopped the I deluded one before this stage was reached. “I am sorry. Mr. Herlestone. yon have said such things,” she replied; “I thought you were above romance. That is partly why I trusted you. You seemed so—so sensible.” “It must surely be a sign of that to admire and to love.” “Pray don't, Mr. Herlestone. It is all a mistake, I assure you.” “A mistake that vou can ever care for me?” “Yes, certainly.” There was a levity about the assurance that stung the young man well nigh into madness. He had heard rumors of the girl’s heartlessness, and had paid no heed, treating them as idle scandal born of I envy. Now he could believe. The very reality of his own love re- | vealed the hollowness of this maiden’s i smiles. “Is it also an error that encouraged me to think differently r” he asked; “that you accepted my advances?” “It was your own fault; you did as you pleased. But you are forgetting yourself now, Mr. Herlestone.” “I admit it, a d I apologize, Miss Carfit,” he replied, bitterly. “It was truly my own fault that I did not un-der-tand. Ido now. You will let me see you back to the party?” The return walk was whiled away by a very con-trained conversation, and bo h were glad when it was over. A strange silence descended upon I Ada Carfit for the rest of the afternoon. Even the mirth of her other courtiers ; fai’ed to do more than organize herinto an outward semblance of interest and > good humor. "2” It was many months later, and the storms of, perhaps, the wildest winter within living memory had descended ; upon these Northern Midland. For day after day, and week after week, the’-e was scarcely a break in the i clouds or a pause in the t ale. Wind and rain, wind and rain was the j dreary record, until the lakes were | swollen, the streams impassable, and | miles of low-lying pasture-lauds submerged. Sharborough was not a pleasant place under the circumstances. Cp n the very brightest heavens its | hive manufacluring chimnies hung a yellow blot; and now the funeral-like | pall of fog and smoke lowered overhead I I hi a perpetual frown. Ada Carfit grew sick of it, and betook j herself on a visit to her uncle at Baysditch, five miles away. There it rained still, it is true, and : | seemed likely to rain. But Baysditch was in the open country, an.i behind it were the Porley Hills. I The girl was better content, and could grumble there with a sense of less o: ipressii n. Os Roger Herlestone, since her dia-mi-sal of him, she had seen very little. He was grown graver and more reticent, it appeared, than ever. And he had lately been taken in as a junior partner by Marston & Marsh. That was all she knew. But somehow his face frequently haunted her. He had looked so resolute and manly on those Porley Downs. She even sighed thinking of it, Ada’s own image, despite his utmost efforts, was equally present with the young manufacturer. “I think I despise and hate her as much as I once cared for her,” he told his brother; “but forget her 1 ■ can't.” “Fall in love with some one else,” was Martin’s sage recommendation. But Roger shook his head. “Not yet,” he said; “I have not sufficient confidence in female good-ne-s since then. That was the greatest evil the girl did me. She destroyed faith at a blow.” “A stormy afternoon, Roger,” said his uncle, two days later. Do you mind driving to Nort i Fulton to see abont tho e mi-sing orders? It will be best for one of the firm to go, as it is such a delicate question.” “I am perfectly willing, sir. I am not afraid of the weather in the least." “Better start at once.” “So I will. I shall be back, then, by i nightfall.” North Fulton was over the Infra, ten miles off. The young man was quickly Under way. He had to pass through Baysditch, and he was aware of Ada Cartit’s presence there. But it was nothing to him whether she saw him or not. The state of the roads was a much more seri us consideration. How high the waters were and still rising. Many houses in the valley were already isolated, and unless a speedy change took place—of which, alas!there was ho symptom —me result must inevitably be grave disaster. The wind lulled for an honr or two while Roger transacted his business. But it arose in redoubled fury as he commenced his return journey. Darkness added to the difficulty and the danger of the route. Turning sharply round a corner into Baysditch valley. Roger was hailed by a terror-stricken voice beliind him. He pulled hastily up. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Pant, pant, pant! and then a white face with awed, dilated eyes gleamed I upon him in the mist. “Porley dam be bursten!” “No!—sure?” Roger comprehended in an instant ' what that message meant, and his accents were as hoarse as the stranger’s. “Ay; certain, “lis tearm’ through : th' embankment like a cataract. Gettin’ bigger every minute, and noane can i stop it.” “Then Baysditch must be flooded?” “Yes. Ibe goin’ to warn ’t.” I “Jump up here." And Boger drove a if for his own life, instead of other people’s. The alarm soon spread, and a scene of terror and confu -ion ensued which j might have appalled the strongest.

Water was swiftly rising in the single : village street, and the mutt. r of the onsweeping torrent grew louder every ; minute. Homeless, ami sadly defloi nt in both food and clothing, dozens of families fled to the hillsides while there was yet time. Where was Ada Carfit lo.lging? Milton Villa, old Luke Carfit’s home, was some distance beyond the clustering village-roofs, and Roger experienced some delay in reaching it. The inmates, only three in number beside the two maid-servants, were but just alarmed, and their retreat was cut off before even Roger was aware of it. Adi was as pale as death, but strangely calm and self- , possessed. Roger remembered after- ; ward how, at least once in that hour of awful peri), her eyes were fixed on his as if they would r< ad his very soul. But it was a time for action and not sentiment. From the edge of the lawn—now the bed of a roaring stream—the ground trended gently away to the uplands, and there the only hope lay. It was more than probable that the house would give way under the avalanche of water which had still to descend. “Porley dam” ! was the current designation of the res- j ervoir that supplied all Sharborough. Roger Herlestone swam across with his horse and turned the animal loose. Then, estimating as best he could the distance and his powers, he returned and briefly explained his plan. There was no boat within reach. Each member of the household must trust to him; and he would return for each. It was proposed that Ada should go first; but she refused, and time was too precious to be spent in haggling. Mrs. Carfit and her husband and the maids were all saved thus; and, nearly exhausted, Roger went back for the obstinate girl who still lingered. “Whether I die or live, this shall be mv revenge,” he muttered to himself. Ada was in his arms now, and the I cross-current running heavily against ; him. It was a desperate struggle, and growing every instant more dangerous by reason of uprooted trees and other wreckage, that came swiftly down the I valley. Would he succeed? How the spectators held their breath and trembled! I At last, with a faint “Hurrah!" he made : terra Anna with his burden. But then he fainted, and for the first time the res- ■ cued household observed that he was wounded. A tree-trunk had struck him, and inflicted a ghastly wound on the head. But for the present all they oould do was to grieve and tend him as he lay. They were outcasts like dozens | of others. ’ That flood will be long remembered, and not least by Roger Herlestone and j the girl he saved. Brain fever supervened, and Roger was ill for many weeks. Ada Cartit wis I his chief nurse, and her character I seemed entirely changed, so humble and assiduous was she. There came a day when, with a new light in his eye, Roger looked up and whispered: “Ada!” She averted her face. But he had [ caught the vision of a tear—one of thankfulness and joy. He took her unresisting hand. “I have a confession to make,” he I whispered. “It was in sheer revenge 1 saved you. Can you forgive me, Ada? And after all—care —a little?” “Forgive! And I—let me tell, too,” she cried, brokenly, “I loved yon, though I didn’t know it, when you asked me first, Roger.” Woman’s Rule in Russia. “Who is now the leading spirit of the I Czar's government?” I asked a high official. “A woman, as usual,” he anI swered. "Like other monarchical | countries, we have always had some | woman at the top or bottom of our | government.” During the thousand and twenty I years of Russia’s existence there have I been eighty rulers, all told, of w hom only five w ere women. But if we study ; Russian history, we shall find that i nearly every Russian ruler has been ; ruled by a woman. Among Russian ' sovereigns there are seven canonized as i '‘Saint.” several arc “Great,” one is ‘'Apostolical.” one “Monomachos,” one "Longarmed,” one "Blessed,” one j “Soothsayer,” one “Dark,” one “Impos- | tor,” one “Brave,” one “Proud,” one I i “Terrible,” one “Not-to-be-forgotten,” j one “Moneysack,” and one “Liberator;” I but among the host of crowned heads | that have ruled Russia for the past thousand years there was apparently j but one “Wise” head, and that a I woman’s. The £reat Princess Olga, of the tenth century, the first Christian I sovereign of Russia, is known in hisj tory as “The Wise.” When the great Prince X’ladimir, being yet pagan, consulted the representatives of his people as to w hat religion I should be adopted, they answered: “The Greek religion, for were it not ■ the best, your Grandmother Olga, the wisest of women, w ould not have I adopted it,’ and the worthy grandchild I followed the example of his grandmother. The philosophers of to-day, however, would call her "‘The Smart,” or “The Cunning.” After Olga for seven centuries no woman ascended the Russian throne. In 1725, when Peter the Great died, his charming and witty w ife, “The Russian Aspasia,” was proclaimed autocratrix under the name of Catherine. In course of time there w ere three other Empresses, Ann. the niece of Peter the Great and murderess of the bov Czar, Peter II.; Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great and murderess of the baby Czar, Ivan VI.; and Catherine 11., the wife and murderess of Czar Peter 111. The poets sang of Catherine 11. as “The Northern Semiramis," and by her great vices and brilliant deeds she fully deserved that appellation. As for Ann and Elizabeth, the classical name of Messalina would be perfectly applicable to both. Mme. Pobedonostzeff, the leading spirit of the Russian government of today,.is the wife of the Chief Procureur of the holy synod, and the most confidential counsellor of the Czar. She is young, beautiful aud ambitious. She married Mr. Pobedonostzeff but a few years ago. Her husband, a very old gentleman, is in love with her. It is said of him that the knightly motto, “God and My Lady,” he changed into “God and My Wife,” and upholds it as devout!’ as a knight of old. He arises • early, prays to God, adores his wife, and then goes to see the Czar, or the ministers, or the holy synod, and everywhere he tries his l>est to carry ont the commands of his charming goddess. Meanwhile she herself is not idle. She receives host? of fair visitors of high I rank, who, while offering their homage, seize the chance of commending their husbands, brothers or cousins. Some- ■ times this or that Mln: -ter of State | does himself the honor oi paying his I respects to her. Occasionally she visI its her magesty, the Czaritza, to cheer her soul in her golden cage. And the Czar himself is there always at hand. Thus it has come about that while the Czar keeps away from the capital of his empire, Mme. Pobedonostzeff has i somehow found herself to be the center of the Russian political world. Instead 1 of the Czar’s policy of the Chancellor’s I or the Minister's policy, we bear of the Madam's policy. With the modesty of an ascending star, she does not reveal her projects, but it is very doubtful whether any liberal reforms will ever find favor w-ith her.— Letter from ; St. Petergbura.

GOSSIP FOR THE LADIES. Before and Alter* BEFORE THE BAIxU O for one wilderinc night, Filled to the brim with bliss, Music and perfume aud lightr— After a day .ike thia! O for a silken gown, Silver and gleaming and rare, Jewe s upon my t hi oat, 810-soms Within my hair. 0 fo~ the scent and glow’. Th i ipture and thrill and bliss. As I whirl down i he liannered root*— After a day like this! AFTER THE BALL. 0 had I ever known Life c«»uld grow stale and flat, Dreary and dull and forlorn— After a night like that! What did the dark eyes say, Lookin • so deep in mine— Dusky and dreamy and sweet, Lit with a tire d vine? Wha‘ does this satin ss mean. The p in and the hdt-despair? What did that music mean, And the rapture beyond compare? Music, aud triumph, and glow, .Jewels, and floweis and light. Ami the dark eves bent on mine— Stars in my bitter night. Ashes, and rags, and tears, 1 he that is dull and flat : One! but mv heart must breakAfter a night like that! COMING OF THE PRINCI. Nay, I am dumb with bliss— Ever the dark eyes shine, All ot the rupture and glow Are forever and ever mine. Here in the ashes he came, Cou'tly, an.i true, and brave, Lifted me up to his heart Tenderly, still and grave. Out of my rags I bloom. Royal with jewel and lace— Joyous and happy, and glad Here in my new life’s grace. Ever the dark eyes smile, both smile and kiss, And the loyal princely heart— O I am dumb with bliss! —Fanitv DrtscolL The Lawxer’s Delay. A lawyer recently lost a bride in a peculiar way. He appeared at the wedding, but, on be ng called to the cere- , mony, from sheer force of habit protested that he was not ready to proceed, and demanded delay. And so i the bride got mad and shipped him. What Spinsters Are. Emily (little sister) —“What a large family the Spinsters must be! I hear I in church every Sunday that some of them are going to be married.” Frances (elder sister)—-“Oh, you little stupid ! Don’t you know what spinsters are? Bachelor ladies, of course.” How Miss Amateur Acted. Miss Amateur took part in some any atenr theatricals, and was cast to the part of a society lady. “How did I do?” she asked her dear friend after the performance. “You did splendidly!” replied the dear friend with animation. “You ae ed just like a lady ■who had been used to the l>est of society all your life—quite refined, you know. I don't see how you could do it. ! You’re a b >rn actress. That’s what everybody said. You didn’t appear one ; bit like yourself.” Os course. Miss Amateur is delighted, but she doesn’t , look it. A Comm mi stlc Schoolma’am. Louise Michel, the French revolutionist, was in early life a schoolmistress. At that time she was a devoted Roman Catholic, with a leaning toward mysticism, aud she wrote several relig- : ious poems and hymns. The doctrine ; of eternal punishment first turned her toward skepticism, and the support given by the clergy to Napoleon HI. ■ completed the work and drove her into I downright hostility to all religion. She i now admits having planned the assassination of both Napoleon and Thiers, and says that the former was ouly saved by Sedan, while the l itter escaped because she feared his murder would re act against the Commune. — Chicago Tribune. Kitchen Cure for Divorces. The frequency of divorces in New England probably comes of an oversupply of literary culture and an under supply of domesticity. They are too literary and too stingy; there is not i enough variety among them—too muck I sameness of novels in the library anc i of boiled beans in the kitchen. It ii I not in human nature to stand so much of George Eliot along with so little tc eat. Who ever heard of a man getting a divorce from a Pennsylvania girlone who knows the mystery of fried chickens and waffles? or from an Ohio, Kentucky, or Indiana girl, who understands the true inwardness of hot corn be id and fresh butter? or from any of their daughters in Missouri, lowa, or anywhere in the Northwest?— The Inj terior. She Wrote to the Commander. When a woman in the far West wants a partner of her joys and sorrows, she generally wants him bad. An officer of the Seventh Cavalry regiment at Fort Lincoln, D. T., received a letter from a woman who owned a ranch at Mandan, which in substance read as follows:: “Dear Sir: My man, perhaps you know, is dead. I buried him Thursday. It is com'ng on spring now, and I am a lone woman with a b'g ranch and the Indians abont. I don't mind the Ind ans, the red devils; but I have too much work for any woman to do. If you have any sergeant about to be mastered out, or a private, if he is a good man, I would like to have you inform me about him. If he is a steady man, likes work, and wants a good home, I w ill marry him, if we think we ca i get along together. It’s a good chance for any man. Please answer.” The Duty of Dressing Well. Do not, disdain dress and the little niceties of the toilet; you may be a very clever woman—perhaps even intellectual ; but for all that von cannot afford to be careless in these matters. No woman with any sense of self-respect should allow herself to sink into a dowdy; but, whatever be her trials, vexations and disappointments, she | should dress as well as her position will allow Do not imagine that we are advocating extravagance; on the contrary, simplicity is our motto, which, if united to good taste, will be found more ! effective in the eyes of husband, father, ’ brother, or lover, than the most costly attire which the milliner's art can invent. A simple bow in the hair mav look quite as coquettish and fascinating ‘ as a diamond aigrette; and a cotton i dress, if fresh and prettily m-de, may be as becoming as silk; indeed, we have often seen a cotton eclipse a silk. We mention this to illustrate the fact that riches are little compared to taste, and that every woman may dress well if she chooses—that, in fact,’it is her duty ; to herself and those around her to dress as well as her position will allow Those who accuse ns who write of tlie fashions, and you who read, of frivolity and triviality, forget that it is just a" easy to dress well as it is to” dress badly, and that to dress out of fashion requires as much expenditure of thought and care as to dress in it A Zunl Courtship. There were two unmarried members of the house; a nephew and an adopted girl. The nephew was an over-grown, heavy-faced, thick-lipped, hair? d, biue eyed blonde—a spe -imen of the tribal albinism, a dandy, and the darling of the white-haired “Old

| Ten.” One day, after 1 had presentea the latter with a pane of ruined negative glass, she ventures! to compare her favorite with me. My flattering acknowledgments of Uiis compliment made decided winnings of the old jroman's hitherto restrained affections. The Governor spared his youth no more than I!S.-'ft Aft.™, *JlrfSSi® man,” or “The Night Bird,” the latter term refeiring to his eyes, “which," the Governor usually added, “wiggled like those of an owl in strong sunlight.” The maiden was jolly, pretty, and coquett ish—she belle of “Riverside street.” Her losers were many, but soon, of the long row who waited under the moonlit eaves, only one was admittesl—the Governor's younger brother, my sympathetic friend. There was but one room in the house in which the two could hope to be left to themselves —mine. Here they came night after night. They paid no attention to the lonely Me.-Lk in his hammock, but sat opposite in the darkness on the low aslobe bench, honr after hour, stroking each other's hands, giggling and cooing in low tones just like so many of n.y own people of the same age, onli’ in a different language. An occasional smack, fsllowed by feminine ind gnation, taught me the meaning of “Stop that 1” in Zuni, and the peculiarities of the Pueblo kiss. If the blissful pair remained too late, the slab door would rumble on its wood: n hinges, and the Governor, preceded by a lighted torch of cedar splints, would stalk in, and, as near as I could make out, rate the young man soundly for his want of respect to the fVash ingtona M&li-kuna, whereupon the pair would vanish, the maiden giggling and the young man cursing.— Frank H. Cushing, in the Century Magatine. Aii English Girl ot the Period. A London correspondent of the San Francisco Argonaut describes a young lady who lives down in one of the southern connties. She is one of the prettiest girls in England, has $5,000 a year in her own right, is just 23 and the daughter of a peer whose pedigree goes back to the conquest, r.r.d whose coun-try-house is the show-place fff the county. To look at her yon would think her the quietest of the quiet, and that she hadn't an idea beyond crochet and weak tea. But she bunts, has her own sta- , hie, keeps four hunters and now anil then rides a steeple-chase, buys and sells her own horses without help from any cne, has her own wine merchant, wine cellar and tobacconist: fences, ' boxes, skates and rows; has her bouI doir decorated with foils, gloves, whips, horseshoes and hunting trophies; smokes I cigarettes during the day and cigars after dinner, is a capital judg- of claret and port, and can tell Amontillado from Marsala with her eyes shut; is a firstrate shot with shot gun or rook rifle; d’ aws her own charges anil pays her own bills: and last, though not least, ha — delightful way of 1> tt ng you see her foot and ankle when she puts cne leg over the other on sitting down that would make a prim old dowager faint, end get her sat upon directly by the sly ones. Yet she has never been known to flirt, has refused more offers than the quiet ones ever dreamed of receiving, and once, it is related, taught the Prince of Wales a lesson by stopping in the middle of a valse with him at a state ball at Buckingham Palace, and refusing to go on, because he held her tighter than she considered proper. You can’t call a girl like that fast. But she knows enough to take care of herself, and if her companionship with the young swells of the day, and her imitation oi their talk and ways has taught her to prefer t eir friendship to their love, it is not unlikely she is nearer right in her estimate of her fellow-beings than are the dragonesses of propriety who rega- d her with abhorrence, bnt are willing to sell their bashful maidens to the first libert ne or titled scapegrace whose establishment and rent-roll make him in their eyes a desirable parti. The Cats of Cairo. Among the curiosities of Cairo is an amateur branch of the Humane Society for the especial benefit of poor Puss A curious legacy was some years ago left by a wealthy burgher to enlarge toe permanent income of the Cadi, on condition of his nourishing and cherishing all the unclaimed cats in Cairo. Like most Mahometans he must have shared the feeling which made the Pi ophet cut off’ the wide sleeve of his robe sooner than disturb a favorite cat wno had fallen asleep thereon. Consequently a large courtyard has been devoted to their especial benefit; and here the “nice, soft, furry creatures” i lie and bask in the sun, and are fed at stated intervals, and altogether have a very good time of it. It is a curious fact, however, that, although daily additions are made to this large feline home, the inmates rarely amount to more than fifty. This (in the absence of sausage machines) is a very remarkable problem. I suppose that a candidate for the office of Cadi has to produce a medical certificate to prove that he is not troubled with that unconquerable aversion to dear old Puss with which so many of the masculine genus are afflicted. The said aversion was one day turned to excellent account by one of our mutual friends, whose next neighbor in i chambers made himself odious by practicing on a cornet, or big fiddle, or some such instrument of torture, in spite of the civil entreaties of our i friend, who was nearly wild with headache. At last, exasperated beyond endurance he sallied forth and invested in a large packet of valerian, which he sprinkled on the low roots below the windows. Os course, in half an honr all the cats in the neighborhood had assembled and crazy with delight, issued cards of invitation to all their acquaintances, and very soon the army of cats, each more mad than its neighbor, were dancing and scrambling, fighting and miauling, until the barbarian with the musical ear rack was tearing his hair in a frenzy nearly as wild as the cats. His neighbor was so delighted at the success of his little joke that his headache was cured. Meanwhile a shower of rain washed the valerian into the ■ courtyard below- Then every one who walked across the com t brought in parficles thereof on the soles of his feet; and the cats found their way up stairs by scores, even into the chamber of the cat-hater, who. on the whole, was verv fairly punished. They seemed to have the same affection for very young nemophila, and come and lie down and roll on it in the most aggravating way. Speaking I of cats it is not startling to hear that i the cats of London—the real household pets—are said to number 300,000. withi out any sort of calculation for houseless wanderers, whose nasal yells disturb nocturnal peace ? The amount : annually spent on purchasing horse flesh from the cat’s-meat men in Lon- ; dou is said to be £100.000! This, aci cording to vulgar notions, should be a ; proof of the folly of elderly spinsters, who are generally supposed’ to have a monoj’oly of feline affections. The great cat show in London a few years : ago, however, betrayed a very different state of domestic matters, the male ex hibitors being so numerous and so anc- : cessful that they carried off thirty-two ■ prizes; fifteen more were secured b’v catloving matrons, while to the much maligned old maids they -sere orlv : awarded four prizes! — Gentleman's , Vagaeine. Tht fisherman beats the buyers by weighing fish in its own scales.

agricultural Ad van i age. of Ryo. A correspondent of the Farm and Fireside sows rye among his corn at the rate of a bushel and a half per acre, • and reports as follows concerning his success with it as a pasture crop: Iwo years ago we treated a seventeen-acre field in this way, the sewing not being done until about the middle cf Angust, 1 as the corn was rather late. As soon as the corn was ripe enough it was cut and 1 shocked, and then, when dry enough to crib, the husking was commenced in one corner of the field, the fodder being re- ’ moved and stacked as fast as husked out, and the portion of the field 1 thus cleared was inclosed with a portable fence. Twenty cows were allowed 1 to graze on this inclosed portion, the ' hulking and‘tacking being continued, and the portable fence being moved further into the field whenever the rye was eaten off. Whenever a rain storm ! came the cows were taken off for a day or two to prevent puddling the soil, being kept in a small blue-grass pasture, which had opportunity to grow while they were on the rye. In this way they grazed upon the rye for six* weeks, grazing off fifteen oi the seventeen acres. As soon as the ground was dry i enough in the spring the cows were , turned upon the rye again, and for sil w, eks more, or uatil the first week in May, it furnished their pasture ground, producing a grass flow of milk. The field , was then plowed or planted again to corn, and yielded a more than average crop, , the roots of the rye causing it to plow up loose and friable, and furnishing, to- ' gether with the cow droppings, a fair manuring. From fifteen acres of this field we, therefore, obtained three months’ pasturing for twenty cows, or nearly SIOO, between the two crops of corn, and this, with a benefit of the i second which was apparently sufficient ! to pay the cost of the seed rye. Full Feeding vs. Parllal Feeding. > A correspondent of the Country i : Gentleman, answering inquiries in re- • | gard to feeding cotton seed meal, re- ■ 1 lates an experiment in feeding grain: : “In 1879 I was selling milk, and during J that year I found the folio ring results . from feesling grain: Eighty pound-* of ■ i green fodder or 20 pounds of hay, worth I 10 cents, gave 7 quarts of milk worth I 28 cents; 60 pounds of green fodder or i 15 pounds of hay worth 7j cents and 9 , I pounds or 9 quarts of mixed corn-meal , bran and cotton seed meal worth 14 ■ ’ cents, total 21j cents, gave 11 quarts of . i milk worth 44 cents, so that 11| cents • ! of extra feed gave 16 cents’ worth of ■ ! ni’lk. But I got part of the cost of the l : extra feed back in the greater value of i i the manure. The rich feeding increased the cream in gre iter proportion than it I increased the milk, for, while on the fod- ' . der alone the cream was 15 per cent., • I on the better feed it was 25 per cent. ‘ Since then I have been makiug butter ‘ i rod have found the following results: : Fodder on hay worth 10 cents gave hree-qnarters of a pound of butter worth 30 cents; fodder and feed worth ’ 214 cents gave 14 pounds of butter 1 worth 60 cents. Here 114 cents’ worth of extra feed returned 30 cents in but1 ter, and in addition added something to ' j the value of the butter. Increasing the feed to 12 pounds per day gave me no more butter but a little less milk, and the trouble with an at- : tack of gar jet with one of the cows. Less feed than nine pou ds did not pay as well as full feeding, and from that I have reached this rule, viz.: Full feeding gives more profit than partial fee ling, arid by "full feeding” I mean the full ascertained limit of what an animal will consume with profit for the largest product. Some cows will ’ consume more and some less to the l>est 1 advantage, a matter which the owner ’ can with proper attention readily ascer--1 tain. 1 Ashes—Leached and Unleached. The crops most benefited by nnleached ashes, beside grass*nd all fruit crops, aie potatoes, root crops and Indian corn, aud to these crops it may be applied in the hill or drill at planting, or dropped by hand near and upon the plants soon after they cme up. There is some danger of injury to the seeduness the distr l> to 1 i v.-ry even, hence the surface app . ho i is usually preferred. Ashe 1 v or? down in the soil. Rains wash d ’ :i their mod valuable constituent-, and 0:1 thei way they act favorably upon the soil, and come in contact with the roots of the plants. They should, therefore, always be applied upon or near the surface of the ■oil. "With li iichcd : -I'o- the case is differ1 ent. The most soluble parts have already been washed out. They still co tain, however, a notable and very ' variable quantity of potash, which soon ' makes its presence known, and, as leached ashes are usually applie I much more lib-rally than unleached, the response of crops is prompt and satisfactt ory. They may be economically used for the same crops. Upon grass they are spread as a top-dressing as evenlv 1 as po sible at the rate of fifty to 100 1 bushels to the : ere—less upon light soils than upon heavy. Unleached ashes are applied to grass an 1 clover in about half the above quantities name--1 ly, wenty-five or thirty bushels per ' acre upon sandy or light, loamy lands, an I sis y bushels or more upon heavier ‘ soils.— American Agriculturist. Buying Poultry for the Family. I 1 An old housekeeper sends to the » Germantoum Telegraph a few sugges- ? I tions to lie kept in mind in purchasing r poultry for the table: I- ew honsekeejx'rs and fewer cooks I are as good judges of the aire of poultry ■ ; as they ought to be. We all know when . poultry comes upon the tible whether s I it is tender or tough; and there should I . be no difficulty of knowing just as cer- • ' tainlv whether a chicken, duck, go se r i or turkey is old or young when it is offered for sale. Now. the following is > . c ffe- ed as a rule by which poultry can - lie safely judged, which, if read over a r . few times and then laid awav for ready > reference when needed, no person need 1 : purchase old and tough poultry unless - | from choice. ; I If a hen’s spur is hard and the scales 5 on the legs rousrh she is old, whether > yon see her head or not, bnt the Imad will corrohor ite your observation. If the nnder bill is so stiff that vou can ■ not bend it down, and the comb thick 1 and rough, leave her. no matter how fat 1 and plump, for some one less particular. : t j A young hen has only the rud ments of t spurs; the scales on the legs are smooth, 1 glossy and flesh colored, whatever the color may be; the claws tender and short, the nails sharp, the nnder bill soft, and the comb thin and smooth. I An old hen turkey has rough scales > on the legs, callosities on the soles of . J the feet, and long, strong claws; a . young one has the reverse of all these , ma' ks. M ben the feathers are on and ■ the old turkey c>ck has a long tuft or , beard a yonng one has bit a sprou‘ing ; cne; and when they are off the smooth . scales on the egs decile the point, bet side the difference in size of the wattles of the neck and in the elastic shoot upon the nose. , An old goose when alive is known bv ■ the rough legs, the strength of the , wings particuhirlv st the pinions, the 1 1 thickness and strength of the bill, and . the fineness of the feithe.s; and when i plucked, by the 1-gs, the tenderness of ! the skip under the wings, bv the pinions and the bill, and the coarseness of • the skin.

Ducks are distingn shed by the same means, but there is this difference—that a duckling's bill is much longer in proportion to the breadth of its head than the old duck. A young pigeon is discovered bv its pale colors, smooth scales, tender, collapsed feet, and the yellow down interspersed among feathers. A pigeon that can fly has always red-colored legs and no down and is then too old for use. Work and Overwort. Work, fairly proportioned to the powers, savs a writer in Goods' ffords, b good and healthy for the organism, ao matter whether it lie brain-wOTk of bodv-work. The full exercise of the powers, mental and bodily, is aesirable, ind improves them so long as the demand is not excessive. But when the powers are called Upon too freely, the ianger looms ahead. Bodily manifests itself in lassitude, in unfitness (or exertion, compelling rest until the mnse of vigor is once more experienced. Certainly, so far so good. But these sensations are not always attended t<\ ind too frequently are fought off by determination, and sometimes by resort :o stimulants. Baron Justus t on Liebig wrote thirty years ago about the workman who resorts to spirits inorder to enable him to complete iiis tusk; "He draws, so to speak, rt 1411 on his health, which must lie always reticwed. because for want of means he cannot take >* he consumes his capital instead of bi* interest, and the result is the inevitable bankruptcy of his liody," The system eontains a reverse fund of energy upon which we can draw in emergencies, and this is known by the term “physiological yapital." The l>ody income is paid tn daily by the food we eat; the body expenditure is the daily outgoings. Ihe >xcess of income over exiienditiire is tin bodv capital. 'Vlien the outgoings ’ are less’ than the incomings an acctv '■ mulation of capital takes place in ibodv bank: just as is the ease m the !the" moM-v bank, when more is paid in than is taken out an accumulation follows. The excess is termed the balance. Now, when business firms reduce their balance too far they are in danger of failure if any sudden and unforseen demand l>e made upon them In fact, if their balance be unequal to the demand they may l>ecomebankrupt. Thcv usually meet the demand by draw- , ing a bill payable at a certain date. In the meantime they set to work to provide the means to meet the bill when it falls dne. If they succeed all is well. ■ If their outgoings just equal their incomings such accumulations of means is possible, and they liecome bankrupt unless they succeed in practically staving off payment by meeting the bill coming due by drawing another. Yet the debt remains: and bill-drawing is a I costly device w hich means absolute ruin at no very distant perio I. But during all this time there is the grave danger of some new demand, for which no similar scheme will or can provide, for their credit is already mortgaged np to the hilt. Smash then they must. Bankruptcy is the natural end of trailing upon fictitious capital. Now. this illustration will make clear to the reader what is here meant about physiological bankruptcy. It means the exhaustion of the body capital and collapse before some new demand. Daily we pay into the body bank so much, and every day we draw out so much. Some days the paying in is far in excess of the withdrawal; then we feel energetic. Many persons so circumstanced feel a craving for something to do. A walk, a row in a boat, a game of tennis, anything that will safely take away the surplus energy, is acceptable. Animals are just the same. After a day or two in the kennel the dog delights in a long day’s hunting. So with the horse; after a day or two in the stable he is ‘‘fresh,’’ as it is termed, and quite frolicsqpie when taken out. The cup is brimming over. On the other band, man and animal alike enjoy a rest after severe and prolonged exertion. But when the horse must work every day his owner feeds him up—gives him more stimulant food. This, however, cannot go on forever. The horse is at last found unequal to his work; the veterinary surgeon is called in, who pronounces him ‘‘used up,” and prescribes a course of “grass.” That is, the horse has to have a long holiday, a rest in the country, until he is strong again. That Bto>e. Shrewd old trailers tell us that the sure way to sell what you wish to get rid of, is to partly hide it, or put it aside for your own use. The Detroit Free Press gives the following example of a quite common perversity in customers. “It’s human natnr’ the world over," says Bill Matson, the second-hand dealer. “Everybody wants what they can’t have, or what they are told they can’t have, which amounts to the same thing. If I have a damaged article, I always put it back behind the perfect ones, and nine times out of ten it is the first one sold. It’s hninau natur' and ’specially iu women!" “W by do you say w omen ?” queried a reporter. “Aren’t men as often swindled in buying as women are?” “Swindled! swindled! My dear boy, who said anything about swindling? People swindle themselves; insist on being swindled. Men generally use their judgment in buying, but a woman rarely does. Set forty rocking chairs out there in a row, mark one of them ‘sold,’ and every woman who wants a rocking chair will want that particular one, and won’t have any other. Some men are the same way, but most are not You know Mitchell?” “Yes.” “The first time you meet him, ask him about that stove.” “How’s that?” “Last fall I bought four stoves, all alike. When we came to black ’em, we found a crack in the bottom of one of ’em as wide as your finger. We wanted a stove over to the house, so I told the boy to shine it up, put it out of sight, and the first time he had the wagon out to carry it over. I could put a piece of sheet-iron over the crack, and ft would do well enough for us. Well, that evening Mitch came along, and says he: Ow- much for one of them stoves?* “ ‘Twelve dollars,” says Fred. “‘Twelve dollars!' says Mitch. ‘Do you take me for a Rotchschild? I'll give you ten.’ All right, says Fred; ‘which one will you have?' “Mitch commenced a-looking of ’em over, when suddenly he spied the cracked one a-sittin’ over there with a piece of old carpet thrown over it. ‘What's all that?’ says he. One that’s Bill is a-goin’ to take over to the house,’ savs Fred. M ell, that's the one I want,’ savs Mitch. “ ‘lt cracked,’ says Fred. “ ‘That's too thin,’ says Mitch. 'You said I could have my choice for ten dollars. There’s vour money. Send it right up.’ And I'll be hanged if he wasnt so Trani that Fred would take up one of the sound ones, that he made him go and hitch np the team right then and take that stove up to his house that night. "Bout a week arter : that, Mitch kindled a fire in his stove, filled her up with coal and went to bed. The heat opened up the crack, and ’bout midnight the stove went off with a ‘bang!’ I took the old stove back and gave him a good one in its place. J tell ve, tis hwaan nature to w ant what other folks have.”

HI i PRINCrPAU-LINE suohif.st, iau it ke»t to F’ J. poiutg in !•<?!>.ToptkKiktniJ»«bra»ka. Mtwouri. UaUaa, Galbum, New Arizona, M. venoa, tana and TfiiaA CIII O -TN. o. Q -X- ' U'S'll’ ■ "l ■ ■ —ifr mi: ’ : si ; t-nlTcr-w: ■ . r; : l-*h'- best equipped l;»il:n*d In the World tor teso all el we ot travel. KANSAS 'CITY' Ail conned ions made Thrcurft Trytt* Tickets via V aa ' l » Celebraied Line find trav.- tng a snle at all offices luxury, uu.cad the U S. a Canada. comfort. Inform utlenV' ~u t jutes \ Fare, bleeping ( ara S etc . cheerful I vglv»‘n i.y X/ \ T J POTTER. PERCEVAL LOWELL, M Flea Gert'l Manager, Gen Past. Agi . Chicano, 111 Chicago, ill. 6RAND RAPIDS & INDIANA RAILWAY. In Effect OetebOT 15, 1882. <OLI MBI M TIME. j ~~ <M)ING N< • iiF2T I ~~ N : N K Cin.. C. M. AD ■ s 15am '< 1 ptc Richmond h 3 ffpm H 10 10 JO Winchester 4 12 14pm It UI Ridgeville 4 fe 12 11 49 Portland 5 Oh i 05 i> i Decatur « 13 2 10 1 25 Fort Wayne ar « 10 8 12 2 •&> ‘ Fort Wayne lv 355 I 3 10 - Kendallville 4 K 4 20 <4? 6W 5 42 ii tn i Vu-kaburg | 7 15 6 41 !21Hpm Kalamazoo ar' ’ 7 30 7 20 12 5o Kalamazoo b ... BGS |7 4C 2S I Allegan ....' 950 |3 50 ; Oraud iUpid". . . .ar 10 to V 50 425 Gnui.i Rapid* Jv 745 am F2O Sl5 D. A M.CVtwwing .. 755 10 37 i Howanl City 9 17 12 orm •» W ■ Rig Rapid* 10 14 1 ('I 7 58 Reed CltV W 50 2 00 Bid Cadillac ’ ar 12 05pm 315 10 W Cadillac lv 330 11 uO Traxene City. ...ar 5 55 Kalka«ka 5 27 itam Mancelona. i , 6 04 1 58 Boyne Fall* i I !T 11 ,3 2? 1 Petonkey 1 7 50 415 ‘ Harb* r Springs 8 25 ; Mackinaw 1 . • 7 » ! ’ l»oixr»~sbUTH. ~ I Strti«>na— , _No._2. 4. Nf. -. V, «. Marl i taw 1vi..... T'. . j Sftptu Bartw>r Springs b Pctoekey •>) J Traverse City i !...»•/ ■ • -••• < 'adi Hat’ ar ...... . •■ 'I 42 5 4.> Cadillac' lv 4 00pm D*y»a C 10 I R« ed City 5 13 17 45 Rig Rapids 550 150 .J W Howard City ®47 246 '? 1* D. &M. Crossing... 805 414 1’ 17 Grand Rapids ar 820 435 10 5J Grand Rapids lv, 7 ‘.Gain 5 00 ! 'flpnf > Allegan 500 110 • Kalamazoo ar 0 00 < 00 2 52 • Kalamazoo lv 905 715 257 . Vicktdmrg V 55 <47 8 M Sturgis 10 82 8 48 G) < Kendallville 11 Mi \0 am Fort Waylie ar 1 oopm 11 20 .15 Fort Wayne lv 1»> 6 13am L' cam . Decatur 1i” 7 m i 25 Portland 3 10 8 (k 2 34 r Ridgeville SS7 884 ■' 1 1 WiurheMtrr 356 851 8 i Richmond I 5 no 955 <2? t Cincinnati I7 40 ■ 110 pm <'» ■ < No. 5 leaves Cincinnati and No. h leave' Mack- . inaw City daily, except Saturday. Al) other c trains d ilv except Sunday. } Woodruff sleeping ears on 5 and •*’ tween Cincinnati and Grand Rapids, and sleep- ’ ing and chair cars on same train 4l between a Grand Rapids and Pebjskev: also Woodraff ’ sleeving car* on Nos. 7 and 8 between Grand Bap id s and Mackinaw Citv. A. B. LEET. ? Gen’l. Pass. Agent 1 TOLEDO, CINCINNATI & ST. LOUIS R, R. Time Table—ln Sept. 4. 1882. X ■ ■- - 1 i 11 " ' Division. i 6 q _JI c I7m. pTm. a. m. Lv. Ar. fp m px- ’ ‘ 535 .... Delphos 84“ 135 ... ’ ! 2 41* 7 36-.... 1> -uatur . 837 11 f-’ 1 J M 831. .. . Binllon. - • 5 5 ’’ 42 ... » 3478 50 .Li’MFtv Centre. '5 1 ' ... 41v9 is Warren ’» 1 ' "" ■•••• C 54550410 IV . Marion 4 1 ’ «"J » 7306 33 1 Kokomo. i- 4 i ■' Ar. Lv. A..M i Going Dayton Going Xoruk j 9 ;1 1 Division. J 2 16 I : 7. .. A M- P m7"Lv7~ Ar. r m. p M ; f iss J ■>> . .BiN'hcorv ile.. 1147 947 ... I ....J 526 252 ..'..Mendon 11 16 9 D t »•, <w» 3 .13 ... Celina 1 * ' * 4l t 654 4 3*' O-g'HMI 43 ‘*2 ”• f 718 4 5-5 . u 750 s®. ..Covington... q 4» h ;• ••• p 5256 10 .West Milton * 1;‘ '• 11 s 41 6 31 Union 7 55 <> ‘ 5‘ Harrisburg. 7 JO] a • • ■ I 9 10; 6 ® Stillwater June. 7 y- » ® ” . ‘J 25 115 .. ..Dv. um f'■ -1 1 ! Ar - - • I 13 I 1117 State Line Div H J-—JL. A?M A. M. V m Lv. Ar. A. M- P M p lt 745 633 ... .Kokomo .... • 45 ; ■ 8 533 701 . Russiaville ’7 19 * « 4 : 6 30 10 lv 7 lv 6 30 J, l _— t A PHILLIPS. T H. B. BEALE. Gen Manager. < ren - J*** W. S. MATTHIAS. Am’A. Oen. h»' Agwiu The Gospel of Culture. “It’s a good thing," said the sqnilA talking orer the proposal with his wife. ? “to get used to the wavs of the won 3 ’arly. It comes awkward to a B after he has grown np an' reached tne i top of the ladder the Lord has set stere R him to climbs to come in company wi<“ a , those that were born somewhere al’OU a the top rungs. It must take a J 1 ’ 41 r of trouble to get used to servants an t forms and ceremonies, then. b' J they’re the very things a man has go to know—and not only know, bnt used to, if lie’s going to get on in ' l6 k world.” _ “Marty is a w ell-behaved boy. the mother, half-resenting the idea t » 1 any training could be better than tia e of Paradis e bay. , . f “Os course he is, mother, and - e 1 got gcod stuff in him, too. B"t e like my Sunday Imots. There amt •- better made lioots in Alban} tia t th -in—good stock and good void e'• . ,f stieh on’t. And then they are al: HP” 1 for church here at Skendoah mes i t house too. . ;l But you just ong’it to have se r ’i 11 ’ boots when I went into the Goverr- 1 ' _ lionse to present that petition " e ' o up *bo;it the bank. I thought 11< 1 were just the meanest, cheapest looking things a ma-i f e wore. I'd had 'em blacked at tl tel. but thev wa'ant uset to it. , Vl ’’ l , j . a an' it didn’t take well. They s-'l neaK ’ - and hollered; s uck out at the side p wertfYun over nt the heel till I tu" ll s « , every one in the room must be !at them; an’ when I sat down I * ; e : them nnder mv chair just as far could get them. But there »»’ 9 Governor, jest ns homely a man » s looked over a stump fence, with fee much as three sizes biggern Itl :. u great long, flat mud-splashers, t' l ®,. ‘ h [. gest I ever saw, except Henry 11- 1 . t —I nevershall forget his. As I -J e the Governor sat there among ; great ladies and gentlemen 1 n e I the commonest kind of boots, not in a half blacked and a patch on the t( * b one of 'em; but I tell you Martha. - r looked as if they’d just grown !l ' . | They were used to it you see —, L it. That makes the difference. ‘ r , jr t . whether it's with men or boots — a C-ontment. _ p Wherever I find a great deal of . itude in a poor man, I take 1 r granted there would be as I erosity if he were a rich man.—rOr -