Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 28, Decatur, Adams County, 27 September 1895 — Page 7

J*. — /I t>* t X /' >,

CHAPTER I. “Help! Help!” “Call louder, Nousie. There is no one to hear." But all the same, the speaker, as lie leized a handsome mulatto girl round the waist, clapped his hand over her lipsand pressed it there in spite of her struggles. “You foolish girl!" he whispered; “the women have gone down to the town to see what is going on. Why do you treat me like this?” “How dare you!” cried the girl, wrenching her head free. “My husband shall “Be silent, you silly little bird. You know 1 loved you long before he ever spoke to you, and that I love you now more than ever.” “Mr. Saintone, it is an insult. Help! Help!” There was a quick short struggle in the creeper-hung verandah. A little worktable was overturned, and, flushed and excited, the girl wrested herself free, and darted through the open door into the shadowy inner room of the cottage, closely pursued by her assailant; but, before he could fling his arms round her again, she had caught a sleeping child from the cradle in which it lay, and held it before her as a shield, while she stood panting, the blood coloring her creamy cheeks, and her full lips drawn back from her white teeth—at bay. “Yes, you look handsomer than ever now, Nousie,” said her assailant, a handsome man of five and thirty, with but a very slight crispness in his black hair to tell of a faint mingling of another blood in his veins. “But this is acting. How can you be so foolish? Come, listen to reason.” The girl’s handsome dark eyes flashed as she drew back, pressing the child more closely to her breast, and watching every act of her assailant, lest he should take her unawares. “I shall tell my husband everything when he comes back,” she panted. “What will he say to his friend when he knows. What have I ever done that you should treat me so?” She burst into a passion of tears, sobbing violently. “Hush, you foolish woman,” he whispered; and he looked sharply toward the door. “Yes, he will come soon, and I will tell him all." j “No, you will not, dear. If you told him, he would come to me, and I should shoot him.” The girl’s jaw dropped, and she gazed at the speaker wildly. “Yes,” he said, seeing his advantage, “I should shoot him. I never miss. Tell him, Nousie. He is in my way." The girl grew a deep, sobbifig breath, and gazed at the speaker as if fascinated, and he saw it and laughed. “There!” he said, “I am going now. Next time I come you will be more sensible and—“Ah!” cried the girl, joyously. “George —George. He is coming.” She darted to the door with the child tn her arms, passed through from the cool darkness into the hot sunshine, and he saw her dart in and out among the great vivid green leaves of the bananas, and out into the road, down which she hurried toward, where, a quarter of a mile away, a white figure could be seen approaching. Jules Saintone stood in the doorway for a few moments watching the hurrying figure of the girl, with her white muslin dress fluttering in the breeze off the sea. “No; she will not tell him,” he said, through bis compressed teeth. “She will not dare.” Then passing into the broad verandah he bent down and hurried to the end, passed out into the lovely, half-natural. garden, and made his way to the shelter" of the edge of the forest behind, among whose heavily foliaged branches he disappeared. By this time the girl was some distance along the road, hurrying on with her drowsy child clasped close to her heaving bosom, her lips parted and her eyes ■trained toward the approaching figure. “Oh, George, George,” she panted, “make haste, make haste!” Then a cold shiver ran through her and ■he checked her headlong pace. “He said he would shoot him.” She nearly stopped, for her brain reeled as she recalled different bloody affrays which had taken place in their unhappy island, where the hate of race was sufficient cause for the frequent use of pistols or knife, and the laws were so lax that the offender was rarely brought to justice. “And he would kill him if I told,” she said despairingly, as she gazed wildly at the approaching figure, which waved a < hand to her and then took off his straw hat and waved that. “And we were so happy,” she added after a pause, as she walked slowly on how, trying to recover her breath and quell the agitation which made her tremble in every limb. v . “Oh, if I only dared!” she panted, as a ' flash of rage darted from her dark eyes. “If I went to the papaloi and asked him, he?would be stricken and would die.” “No, no, no,” she cried, as she strained - the child to her breast; "they would poison him, and it is too horrible. I—l must not speak.” The figure was fast approaching, now standing out clear in the dazzling tropic sunshine, now half hidden by the dark shadow of the heavy leafage which hung over the road, till with a sigh of relief, ' as a strong arm was passed round her ■upple waist, the girl let herself rest upon the support, and her troubled face grew calm as that of one who has found sanctuary at last “My darling! Impatient? Have I been •« loa « 7 ”

“Yes, yes; so long, George—so long." “But—why you are overdone with the heat and carrying that child. You foolish little thing to come out in this roasting sun.” She looked at him wildly. “No, no, no,” he cried, kissing her fondly. “I’m not cross, little one, but you should not have come to meet me. And then to bring the poor pet. Ah!” he cried, as hp tenderly took the sleeping child from her arms, and kissed its closed eyelids and tiny pouting lips in away that sent a thrill of joy through its mother. “Why, Nousie, darling, werelyou afraid the Vaudoux people would come and steal it for their next feast?” “Hush!” she whispered excitedly, and with .a look of horror she gazed wildly round Into the dark shadows of the forest, at whose edge their Cottage stood. “Bah! little coward!” he said, smiling, as he passed his arm about his Wife again, and they walked gently back, taking advantage of every bit of shade. “But, Nousie, dear, I must talk seriously to you about that.” “Not about the Vaudoux people, George,” she said hurriedly. “Yes, dear; about the Vaudoux. My little wife must wean herself from all those beliefs.” Npusie hung more heavily on her husband’s arm, and the tears filled her dark eyes as she shook her head slowly, and despondency seemed to be clouding her soft creamy face. “Why, Nousie,” cried the man, a sunburnt French colonist, who years before had left gay Paris to try his fortune in Hayti, “you would not like our darling, my tiny dawn of a bright day, my precious Aube, to learn all their horrid fetish rites and degrading superstitions.” “Oh, no, no, no,” cried the girl excitedly. “Then why not forget them yourself? Can you not see, dearest, that this is the savage religion of the African, brought over here by the wretched slaves?” The color began to appear once more in the girl’s pallid cheeks, and she turned her eyes to his reproachfully. They were hidden among the trees, though at that hour not a soul was in sight; white, and indolent black, in the scattered dwellings were asleep, and he drew her closer to him, and kissed her tenderly. “Don’t look like that pet,” he said. “You don’t suppose it was meant for a reproach to you for what you cannot help? What is it to us? We love, and you might blame me because my ancestors were French. But promise me you will try and forget all that.” “I will try,” said Nousie, fixing her eyes on those of her husband with a look of yearning love. “But it is so hard, George. My grandmother used to believe so much, and she taught me, and she used to tell me that if I dared to forget them the people and the priests had such power—they were everywhere—and that if I forsook them I should die. And I could not die now and leave you.” He drew her to him again, and they walked more slowly as he looked from the sweet dreamy eyes, fixed so earnestly on his, to the sloping child and back. “No darling, and you shall not die,” he said, half pitying her. “There, some day your faith in all the horrible old superstitions will grow weaker, and you wfll see the truth of all I say.” “I do now, dearest,” she whispered, “for you are so wise and learned and good. I want to forget it all, but it is so hard, and it seems like a cloud over me sometimes, and fills me with fear for you and our little one.” “It is like a cloud oyer this beautiful unhappy land, Nousie,” cried the man, drawing himself up. “It is a curse to the country, and it is so hard to see peace. Oh, my wife,” he continued excitedly; "here is a land blessed by the Creator with everything that should make it a paradise for man, but man curses it with his jeajouaies and passions till it is a perfect hell. Black against white—white against black, and the colored people hating both. And as if this was not enough, here is all this revolutionary trouble, and I do not know which side to take—which to help into peace to. save the land.” “Side—help!” cried Nousie wildly. “You —you will not go and fight?” He gazed at her fondly for a few moments as they stood fast beneath the broad spreading leaves of a dwarf palm. “Fight?” he said sadly. “If I could help it, no, Nousie, darting. I came out here to seek a place where all would be peace, where I could have my home, and win land from savage nature to give me the richest fruits of the earth. I have done this, and I have my home made beautiful with the voice of the sweetest, truest woman upon earth, with our little one here; but it. is of no. use to hide it from you —there are great troubles coming again. We shall have bloodshed till one party has full power. Callet is the man I believe, but black La Grasse is making head, and he is not a bad fellow, he wishes well to the place. I hesitate sometimes which side to take.” “No, no, no," cried Nousie passionately. “You shall not fight; they would kill you.” “No, not so bad as that,” said George Dulau, smiling. “But join one side I must, darling. Every man among us must make a stand for his position in the land.” A piteous sigh escaped from the girl’s breast. “Yes,” continued Dulau, “it is hard, love, but it Is one’s fate. Harder, too, now, when I have you and the little one. There, don’t think of the coming troubles while we have the present. Look at her, how delicate and white she is,” he continued, as he gazed down fondly at the sleeping child. “Is she not beautiful, Nousie?—Venousie—Venus.” He’ laughed gently. “As beautiful as you are. They might well call you Venus.” “Xtotft/’ said the girl reproachfully/

f ,4 you make me think you are itiocktnt. 1 am not beautiful.” “No?” he said tenderly. “Then tell me our darling Is not.” “Oh, no,” cried the girl ecstatically. “She Is beautiful—and she is white.” “Yes, white,” said Dulau fondly, “pale and beautiful and rosy as the dawn. Nousie, we will have no other name for her. She shall be Aube—the dawn, our darling, and some day she shall go to Paris. We will make a lady of her, Nousie. There, come along, I am tired with a morning’s talk.” "Yes, tell me,” cried Nousie. “What has been done—what has been snid?" “Impossible! One voice drowned an* other. But the people are all for fighting, Nousie, I cannot conceal it from you. • It must come.” They walked on in silence for a few moments, and then Dulau said gravely: “Let me see, it is ten years’ since I landed in Port au Prince, and there was a revolution. In those ten years there have been two more, and now we are on the brink of another. Saintone says I must stand for him and his party, and I am afraid I is the matter?” The young wife had started violently, and her face was full of agitation consequent upon his mention of the name of his friend, one of the wealthiest Creole planters and merchants of the port “Matter?” she faltered, turning pale. “My darling,” he whispered, “I ought not to have talked about it to you.” “Yes, yes; I must know all,” she cried wildly. “But George, dearest, if—if you must fight—don’t—don’t—- ' She stopped short, gazing at him with parted lips. “If I must fight—don’t,” he said, laughingly repeating her words. “Don’t—don’t take sides with Saintone," she cried desperately. "Eh? Not with, the best friend I have in the world ?” “No, no,” she cried, clutching him by the breast as they stood now in the shade of their broad verandah. “He is not your friend—he hates you. Don’t trust him—don’t join with him—he—he ” “Why, Nousie, darling, you are quite feverish and wild,” said Dulau wonderingly, as he laid his hand upon her burning forehead. “Come indoors, and let’s lay Aube down. She will be cooler. Look at the little pearls all over her white forehead. There, little one," he said, as he bent down and kissed the child, walking the while into the shadowed room, where he laid the sleeping babe in its cradle, his wife following him with her hands clasped, and her teeth set for fear she should say more—tell her husband and risk his life.. He turned^to her smilingly, and stopped short, startled by her set countenace. “Why, Nousie, dear,” he said, catching her in his arms, “you are not going to be ill?” “Hl? No, no,” she said, shuddering as she closed her eyes. “But you are so strange. Why have you taken such a sudden dislike to Saintone? By the way, he was not at the meeting. I must go and see him as soon as it grows cool. But He looked round wonderingly. His eyes had caught sight of the overturned worktable, then of a chair lying on its side, and a curtain half dragged down from the rings which held it above the window. •He gazed wildly at his wife, and a strange pallor came into his cheeks ; while the girl’s eyes were wide open now, and staring at him, with a faintly-seen opal ring about the pupils. The volcanic passion of the Gaul burned in the man’s eyes, as thought after thought flashed through his brain, and he caught her clasped hands in his. “Nousie!” he cried, hoarsely, “tell me—what has happened—speak—what does all this mean?” The white circle between her eyelids grew larger as she gazed at him wildly. “Tell me —why do you not answer?” he cried. Her lips moved, but no words came. “Ah!” he cried, excitedly, “you were flushed and excited—you had been weeping. Nousie, wife—why do you not speak?” “I —dare not,” she faltered at last. “What! Have some of the Vaudoux .people been here?” She shook her head. - “Then tell me. What has happened?” “I—l dare not,” she moaned, and she sank upon her knees before him as he held her hands. “You —you dare not?” he cried, fiercely. “This instant—why not?" “He—said he would kill you if I did.” “What? Who —who said that?” roared Dulau furiously. "No, no—don’t ask me,” she cried, and she would have grovelled at his feet, but he dragged her up and held her tightly, one arm about her waist, the other upon her brow, forcing her head back as he seemed to plunge his gaze into hers in search of the truth. (To be continued.) Important Office. Among the many anecdotes relating to the celebrated Doctor Chalmers, an amfislng one was once told by a gentleman on his returnrfrom his first visit to Edinburgh. He had heard a great deal about the wonderful oratorical powers possessed by some of the members of the General Assembly, and being anxious to hear and judge for himself, paid an early visit to It. Next to him sat an elderly, hard-fea-tured, solemn-faced man, who was leaning with both hands on a heavy stick, which he eyed with great concentration of gaze, scarcely lifting his eyes from his absorbed contemplation of it. Soon the strangefs attention was riveted upon the speaker whd had opened the day’s discourse. The wonderful command of language which he possessed, combined with his eloquence of style and the peculiarity of his manner, excited the listener’s curiosity to a great degree. “Can you tell me who is speaking now?” he asked, eagerly, turning to the sober-faced old man beside him. “Who’s speaking now?” echoed the old man, lifting his eyes from the contemplation of the stick to fix them in contemputous amazement upon his interlocutor. “That, sir, is the great Docther Chawmers, and I’m. holdin’ his stick!" It is said that if two tuning forks of the same pitch are placed facing each other, the one sounding, the other silent, in a few seconds the silent one will be giving out a distinctly audible

TEE SAIL IN A STORM. REV. DR. TALMAGE'S LESSON Ohl THE SEA OF GALILEE. Christ Hushing the Tempest—Necessity for Christ on the Rough Voyage of to Be Frightened About—The World Moves. Necessity of Faith. In his sermon Sunday Rev. Dr. Talmage discoursed on a dramatic incident during the Savior’s life among the Galilean fishermen and draws from it a striking lesson for the men and women of the present day. The subject was "Rough Sailing,” and tho text Mark iv., 36, 37, “And there were also with him other little ships, and there arose a great storm of wind.” Tiberias, Galilee and Gennesaret were three names for the same lake. It lay in a scene of great luxuriance. The surrounding hills, high, terraced, sloping, gorged, were so many hanging gardens of beauty. The streams rumbled dow through rocks of gray and red limestone, and flashing from the hillside bounded to the sea. In the time of our Lord the valleys, headlands and ridges were covered thickly with vegetation, and so great was the variety of climate that the palm tree of the torrid and the walnut tree of rigorous climate were only a little way apart. Men in vineyards and olive gardens were gathering up the riches for the oil press. The hills and valleys were starred and crimsoned with flowers, from which Christ took his text, and the disciples learned lessons of patience and trust. It seemed as if God had dashed a wave of beauty on all the scene until it hung dripping from the rocks, the hills, the oleanders. On the back of the Lebanon range the glory of the earthly scene was carried up as if to set it in range with the hills of heaven. A Smooth Sea. No other gem ever had so exquisite a setting as beautiful Gennesaret. The waters were clear and sweet, and thickly inhabited, tempting innumerable nets and affording a livelihood for great populations. Bethsaida, Chorazin and Capernaum stood on the bank, roaring with wheels of traffic and flashing with splendid equipages, and shooting their vessels across the lake, bringing merchandise for Damascus and passing great cargoes of wealthy product. Pleasure boats of Roman gentlemen and fishing smacks of the country people who had come down to cast a net there passed etch other with nod and shout of welcome, or side by side swung idly at the mooring. Palace and luxuriant bath and vineyard, tower and shadowy arbor, looked off upon the calm sweet scene as the evening shadows began to drop, and Hermon, with its head covered with perpetual snow, in the glow of the setting sun looked like a white bearded prophet ready to ascend in a chariot of fire. I think we shall have a quiet night! Not a leaf winks in the air or a ripple disturbs the surface of Gennesaret. The shadows of the, great headlands stalk clear across the water. The voices of eveningtide, how drowsily they strike the ear—the splash of the boatman’s oar and the thumping of the captured fish on the boat's bottom, and those indescribable sounds which fill the air at nightfall. You hasten to the beach of the lake a little way, and there you find an excitement as of an embarkation. A flotilla is pushing out from the western shore of the lake—not a squadron with tJead’y armament, not a clipper to ply with valuable merchandise, not piratic vessels with grappling hook to hug to death whatever they could seize, but a flotilla laden with messengers of light and mercy and peace. Jesus is in the front Ship; his friends and admirers are in the small boats following after. Christ, by the rocking of the boat and the fatigues of the preaching exercises of the day, is induced to slumber, and I see him in the stern of'the boat, with a pillow perhaps extemporized out of a fisherman’s coat, sound asleep. The breezes of the lake run their fingers through the locks of the wornout sleeper, and on its surface there riseth and falleth the light ship, like a child on the bosom of its sleeping mother. Calm night Starry night Beautiful night. Run up all the sails and ply all the oars and let the boats, the big boat and the small boats, gp gliding over gentle Gennesaret. Calming the Sea. The sailors prophesy a change in the weather. Clouds begin to travel up the sky and congregate. After awhile, even the passengers hear the moan of the storm, which comes on with rapid strides and with all the terrors of hurricane and darkness. The boat, caught in the sudden fury, trembles like a deer at bay, amid the wild clangor of the hounds. Great patches of foam are flung through the air. The loosened sails, flapping in the wind, crack like pistols. The small boats poised on the. white cliff of the driven sea tremble like ocean petrels, and then plunge into the trough with terrific swoop until a wave strikes them with, thunder crack, and overboard go the cordage, the tackling, and the masts, and the drenched disciples rush into the stern of the boat and shout amid the hurricane, “Master, carest thou not that we perish ?” That great Personage lifted his head from the fisherman’s coat and walked but to the prow of the vessel and looked upon the storm. On all sides were the small boats tossing in helplessness apd from them came the cries of drowning men. By the flash of lightning I see the calmness of the uncovered brow of Jesus and the spray of the sea dripping from his beard. He has. two words of command —one for the wind, the other for the sea. He looks into the tempestuous heavens and he cries, “Peace!” and then he looks down into the Infuriate waters and he says, “Be still!” The thunders beat a retreat. The waves fall flat on their faces. The extinguished stars rekindle their torches. The foam melts. The storm is dead. And while the crew are untangling the cordage and the cables and bailing out the water from the hold of the ship, the disciples stand wonder struck, now gazing into the calm sky, now gazing into the calm sea, now gazing into the calm face of Jesus and whispering one to another, “What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?” Christ on the Ship. I learn, first from this subject that when you are going to take a voyage of any kind you ought to have Christ in the ship. The fact is, that those boats would all have gone to the bottom if Christ had not been there. Now, you are about to voyage out into some new enterprise—into some new business relation. Yog are going to plan some great matter of profit; I hope it is so. If you Mt M <« JUSUML M Ihft

course and plan nothing new, yon are not fulfilling your mission. What you can do by the utmost tension of body, mind and soul, that you are bound to do. You have no right to be colonel of a regiment if God calls you to command an army. You have no right to be stoker in a steamer if God commands you to be admiral of the navy. You have no right to engineer a ferryboat from river bank to river bank if God commands you to engineer a Cunarder from New York to Liverpool. But whatever enterprise you undertake, and upon whatever voyage you start, be sure to take Christ in the ship. Here are men largely prospered. The seed of a small enterprise grew into an accumulated and overshadowing success. Their cup of prosperity is running over. Every day sees a commercial or a mechanical triumph. Y»t they are not puffed up. They acknowledge the God who grows the harvests and gives them all their prosperity. When disaster comes that destroys others, they are only helped into higher experiences. The coldest winds that ever blew down from snowcapped Hermon and tossed Gennesaret into foam and agony could not hurt them. Let the winds blow until they crack their cheeks. Let the breakers boom—all is well, Christ is in the ship. Here are other men, the prey of uncertainties. When they succeed, they strut through the world in great vanity and wipe their feet on the sensitiveness of others. Disaster comes and they are utterly dowu. They are good sailors on a fair day, when the sky is clear and the sea is smooth, but they cannot outride a storm. After awhile the packet is tossed abeam’s end, and it seems as if she must go down with all the cargo. Push out from the shore with life-boat, longboat, shallop and pinnace. You cannot save the crew. The storm twists off the masts. The sea rises up to take down the vessel. Down she. goes! No Christ in that ship. I speak to young people whose voyage in life will be a mingling of sunshine and of darkness, or arctic blast and of tropical tornado. You will have many a long, bright day of prosperity. The skies clear, the sea smooth. The crew exhilarant. The boat, stanch, will bound merrily over the billows. Crowd on all the canvas. Heigh, ho! Land ahead! But suppose that sickness puts its bitter cup to your lips; suppose that death overshadows your heart; suppose misfortune with some quick turn of the wheel hurls you backward; suppose that the wave of trial strikes you athwart ships, and bowsprit shivered, and halliards swept into the sea, and gangway crowded with piratical disasters, and the wave beneath, and the sky above and the darkness around are filled with the clamor of the voices of destruction. Oh, then you will ».ant Christ in the ship. Storms Will Come. » I learn, in the next place, that peofle who follow Christ must not always expect smooth sailing. When these disciples got into the small boats, they said: "What a delightful thing this is! Who would not be a follower of Christ when he can ride in one of these small boats after the ship in which Jesus is sailing?’-’ But when the storm came down these disciples found out that following Jesus did not always make smooth sailing. So you have found out and so I have found out. If there are any people who you would think ought to have a good time in getting out of this world, the apostles of Jesus Christ ought to have been the men. Have you ever noticed how they got out of the world? St. James lost his head. St. Philip was hung to death against a pillar. St. Matthew was struck to death by a halberd. St. Mark was dragged to death through the streets. St. James the Less had his brains dashed out with a fuller’s club. St. Matthias was stoned to death. St. Thomas was struck through with a spear. John Huss in the fire, the Albigenses, the Waldenses, the Scotch Covenanters—did they always find smooth sailing? Why go so far? There is a young man in a store in New York who has a hard time to maintain his Christian character. All the clerks laugh at him, the employers in that store laugh at him, and when he loses his patience they say, “You are a pretty Christian.” Not so easy is it’for that young man to follow Christ. If the Lord did not help’ him hour by hour, he would fail. There are scores of young men to-day who would be willing to testify that in following Christ one does not always find smooth sailing. There is a Christi in girl. In her hometheydo not like Christ. She has hard work to get a silent place in which to say her prayers. Father opposed to religion. | Mother opposed to religion. Brothers and sisters opposed to religion The Christian girl does not always find it smooth sailing when she tries to follow Jesus. But be of good heart. As seafarers, when winds are dead afegad, by setting the ship on starboard tack and bracing the yards, make the winds that oppose the course propel the ship forward, so opposing through Christ, veering around the bowsprit of faith, will waft you to heaven, when, if the winds had been abaft, they might have rocked and sung you to sleep, and while dreaming of the destined port of heaven you could not have heard the cry of warning and would have gone crashing into the breakers. The Wfiirld Moves. Again, my subject teaches me that good people sometimes get very much frightened. From the tone and manner of these disciples as they rushed into the stern of the vesseQjtnd woke Christ up, you know that they are fearfully scared. And so it is now that you often find good people wildly agitated. “Oh!” says some Christian man, “the infidel magazines, the bad, newspapers, the spiritualistic societies, the importation of so many foreign errors, the church of God is going to be lost, the ship is going to founder! The ship is going down!” What are you frightened about? Ah old lion goes into bls caveiiTto take a sleep, and he lies down until his shaggy mane covers his paws. Meanwhile the spiders outside begin to spin webs over the mouth of his erfvern and say, "That lion cannot break out through this web," and they keep on spinning the gossamer threads until they get the mouth of the cavern covered over. “Now,” they say, “the lion's done, the lion’s done.” After awhile the lion awakes and shakes himself, and he walks out from the cavern, never knowing there were any spiders’ webs, and with his voice he shakes the mountain. Let the infidels and the skeptics of this day go on spinning their webs, spinning their, infidel gossamer theories, spinning them all over the place where Christ seems to be sleeping. They say: “Christ can never again eome out; the work is done. He can never get through this logical web we have been spinning.” The day will come when the Lion of Judah’s tribe Will rouse himself and come forth and shake mightily the nations. .“ What then all your gossamer threads! Vi 'bat it a spidefe web to aa

aroused lion? Do not fret, then, about the world’s going backward. It is going forward. Hushing the Tempest. I learn from this subject that Christ can hush the tempest. Some of you, my hearers, have a heavy load of troubles. Some of you have wept until you con weep no more. Perhaps God took the sweetest child out of your house, the one that asked the most curious questions, the one that hung around you with greatest fondness. The gravedigger’s spade cut down through your bleeding heart. Or perhaps it was the only one that you had, and your soul has ever since been like a desolated castle, where the birds of the night hoot amid the falling towers and along the crumbling stairway. Or perhaps it was an aged mother that was called away. You used to send for her when you had any kind of trouble. She was in your home to welcome your children into life, and when they died she was there to pity you. You know that the old hand will never do any more kindness for you, and the lock of white hair that you keep so well in the casket of the locket does not look so well as it did on the day when she moved it back from the wrinkled forehead under the old-fashioned bonnet in the church in the country. Or perhaps your property has gone. You said, “There, I have so much in bank stock, so much I have in houses, so much I have in lands, so much I have in securities.” Suddenly it is all gone. Alas! for the the man who once had plenty of money, but who has hardly enough now for the morning marketing. No storm ever swept over Gennesaret like that which has gone trampling its thunders over your quaking soul. But you awoke Christ in the back part of the ship, crying, "Master, carest thou not that I perish? ” And Christ rose up and quieted you. Jesus hushing the tempest There is one storm into which we must all run. When a man lets go this life to take hold of the,next, I do not care how much grace he has, he will want it all. What is that out wonder? That is a dying Christian rocked on the surges of death. Winds that wrecked magnificent flotillas of pomp and worldly power come down on that Christian soul. All the spirits of darkness seem to be let loose, for it is their last chance. The wailing of kindred seems to mingle with the swirl of the waters, and the scream of the wind, and the thunder of the sky. Deep to deep, billow tn billow. Yet no tremor, no gloom, no terror, no sighing for the dying Christian. The fact is that from the back part of the boat a voice sings out, “AJ’hen thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.”,- By the flash of the storm the dying Christian sees that the harbor is only just ahead. From heavenly castles voices of welcome come over the waters. Peace drops on the angry wave as the storm sobs itself to rest like a child falling asleep amid tears and trouble. Christ hath hushed the tempest. CURIOUS ISLANDERS. The Cave Dwellers of Bering Straits Are Without Equals. In Bering Straits, thirty miles off Port Clarence and the shores of Alaska, there are about two hundred of the most curious, islanders that ever were seen. The Island or rock they Inhabit is about half a mile wide and a little more than that distance long, and the islanders are cave dwellers and live on whale blubber, seal and walrus meat. One abode is built over and under the other and to the right and left, giving them a strange and motley appearance, not unike the recesses inhabitedtf by bald eagles. There are narrow caves excavated into the side of the crumbling volcanic rock, and In the bottom of each is some short, native grass, forming a bed in which to sleep. At the mouth of the cave and fust in the interior fires are lighted, and here they warm themselves in the winter. Skins of different kinds are also suspended outside to keep out the snow and cold. In the summer the hardy natives leave their holes and live In odd houses made of poles, constructed near at hand on the edge of the cliff. These strange people are usually as strong and vigorous as can be found anywhere. Moreover, they are entirely contented and happy. They have no government, no chief, and no need of laws. Living in families and setting forth every day in their kiaks for the whale, seal and walrus, they return each night to their caves, or pole tents, caring nothing for the outside world. Odd to relate, however, the prestige of the native is determined by the clothes he wears. As these consist of skins and constitute the wealth of the islanders, it will be seen that they are not In this respect so much unlike civilized people. But the man with more clothes than anybody els.p has no more authority. He is respected for his sagacity, but that is all. Rip Van Winkle in China, A Chinese writer, Tcheng-Ki-Tong, describes Chinese chess as a game of patience. It is played with three hundred and sixty-one pawns, and the player sometimes deliberates half an hour before moving one of them. Literary men and ladies are said to be fond of it, and what sounds more likely, “people who have retired from business.” There are three sounds, the writer says, which help to turn one’s thoughts toward what is .pure apd deUcatef the sound of falling water, the murmur of wind in the trees, and the rattle of chess pawns. In the time of the Tching dynasty, as the story goes, a wood cutter who had gone to the top of a mountain for a day’s work, found two young men there playing chess. He stopped to look on, and presently became deeply Interested, and after a while one of the players gave him a piece of candied fruit to eat. The game grew more and more exciting. The wood cutter forgot his work, and sat hour after hour with his eyes on the board. At last he happened to look at his ax. The handle of it had rottod aw’ay. That frightened him. He jumped up, and hastened down the mountain to the village. Alas, among all the people th the street he recognized not one, and he found on inquiry that several centuries had passed since he started out with his ax. ® , ■ > .. ~ *—r.s, .