Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 32, Decatur, Adams County, 25 October 1895 — Page 8

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CHAPTER IV— (Continued.) “Ah!” exclaimed Aube, raising her face at this revelation, and looking wonderingly in the old lady’s face. “It was this necessity which kept her from coming to see yon again and agair If she had done so, she says, she couh. . not have kept you here.” “My mother!” sighed Aube, with her eyes dilating; and the Superior went on in the same low, sweet voice: “She says now, Aube, that you are a woman grown, and that she can bear the separation no longer—that her heart yearns for you—that she cannot rest until she clasps to her breast all that is left to her of that dear husband who was to her as a god—l give you her own words, my child; and I ought to utter words of reproof on the vanity—the wickedness of a woman giving herself up so wholly to such a love —but —but —but, my darling, I cannot say them now. For it touches me to the heart, Aube, and I can only see the sweet, loving widowed mother there, all those thousands of miles away —stretching out her trembling hands, my darling, her longing eyes strained yearningly to me,, as she says, ‘I have done my duty,—l have worked, and watched, and waited—l havedoneall that he would have had me do, and now that my long penance is fulfilled, giveme back my child.’ ” The solemn silence was broken now by Luce’s sobs, as she sank into a chair, and laid her head -upon its arm. “Yes, my dearest one,” continued the Superior, “we poor women here, devoted as we are, have never known a mother’s love; but as I read that letter, Aube, I seemed to realize it all. Between its lines there stand forth in burning words all that yon poor, patient woman tried to express, and suffer as I may at having to . part from you, I know it is your duty to go to her —to go, as she says, at once, for life is short, and I can send you to her. glad in my heart, with the blessings of all here, and say we now send you back the infant you confided to us, a woman now, and as sweet and srue and pure as ever knelt before God.” “Sister Elise! Mother!” sobbed Aube. “My child!” There was another long pause, and then smiling on her pupil the Superior took the letter, and placed it in Aube's hands. “Take it read it, dear,” she said calmly now —“it is the letter of a mother, of whom you may say, ‘Thank heaven. I am her child!’ It is a terrible experience, for it is a long voyage, and to a land of” which tilDiipW" T^lHve”heard naught but evil. Now I-know that there is one there whom I should be glad to call sister, and now there will begone whom I am glad to call my spiritual daughter. Hayti cannot be all bad, Aube, so now -wipe away those tears, for the pangs are past, and it is a day of joy—the day on which the first steps are taken to rejoin two such hearts as yours.” “But, mother, am I to go soon ?” “In a day or two at most. The Consul brought me the letter. He had received one as well, and his orders were to find some good family returning to the island in whose charge you could make the voyage. This might have been months;, Aube, but heaven smiles upon the pfliject, and the Consul tells me of a widow lady who has been in Paris a year with her daughter about your age. She, too, lost her husband, it seems, in the war when,your father died. This Madame Saintone will be'glad to be your chaperon, my child, her daughter your companion, but— —” “But, what, mother?” whispered Aube, who seemed half stunned. “The mail steamehleaves Havre within a day or two, I hearl'and our parting will be very soon.” Aube gazed at her wildly. “No, no,” my darling, no more tears,” whispered the Superior, kissing her. “Go to your room now, and rest and pray. Then read your letter as I would have you read it. Go, my child. Your true, loving mother, who must have passed through a martyrdom for your sake, waits to press you to her heart. Luce, my child.” Luce started from the chair, to run forward with her face swollen and convulsed with weeping, to lead her companion to the room they shared. As the door closed Aube flungiher arms about her friend and sobbed out: “Luce! Luce! is it all true?” Luce was silent, only gazed at her wildly as Aube raised the folded letter to her lips and kissed it passionately. “Yes, mother,” she said, gazing before her, with a wild, far-off look, “yes, mother, I come!” “Aube!” rang out in a wild cry. “Luce, darling, what are you thinking?” cried Aube, startled by the agony in her friend’s eyes. “I was thinking you must not, shall not go.” Aube shrank from her with the letter pressed to her lips once more, and she stood blanched, hard and strange-looking as if she had been turned to stone. “Aube, darling, what will poor Paul say?” CHAPTER V. “You’re a fool, Jules Deffrard.” “You’re a gentleman, Etienne Saintone.” “There, I beg your pardon, man, but you make me angry. Have you no ambition ?” “Os coure I have; to become your brotli-er-iih-lbw. What day will the steamer arrive?” “How should I know? I-min no hurry;place has been right enough withotft the old lady.” “Dull enough without Antoinette.” “Rubbishl ’.What a sentimental lover you are,” cried the first speaker, as he lazily tilted back the cane chair in which he balanced himself so as to reach a cigar from a little table, placing one in his lipe and throwing another to his vis-a-vis. They were two well enough looking young men —dark, sallow, and well-dress-ed, after the fashion of the creole of the — —~ '• O ’ * ' .

South. They were seated in the broad veranda of a good house, slightly elevated and overlooking the town of Port au Prince, and over it, away to sea, with its waters of deep and dazzling blue. “Now, then, light up. I want to talk to you. Have some ’rack?” “No; had enough. Talk away.” “Well, look here, then,” said Saintone,. lowering his voice, after a glance round to see that they were not likely to be overheard. “I’ve quite made up my mind to join the Vaudoux.” “And I’ve made up my mind not to,” replied Deffrard, tilting back his chair; “I’m going to be very good now, and marry vour sister.” “Tchah!” “Ah, you may talk and sneer, but what would she say ?” “That you are, as I say, a fool. Who’s going to tell her what we do. Suppose I should go and tell my mother as soon as she gets back?” “But what do you want to join them so go to their feasts and dances? Pah! I fancy I can smell the niggers here.” “To go to their feasts, man? Where are yotir brains?” cried Saintone, bending toward his friend. “Can’t you see, boy, that I mean to take a big place in the Government?” “Yes; you are always talking about it.” “Well, to get there, I must have votes." “Os course.” “Black votes are as good as colored, man.” “You’ll get yourself mixed up with some political rising, and be shot as your father was." “Well, that’s my business. Now, look here; if I belonged to the Vaudoux sect, and came out pretty liberally to the Papaloi ” “Papaloi?” interrupted Deffrard. “How did they get that word?” “Papa, roi, stupid, Father King,” said Saintone, impatiently. “Ah! I see; their way of sounding the r—roi—loi.” “These priests will influence the people on my behalf, and I am safe to be elected.” “Well, yes, I suppose so; but ” “Hang your buts! Don’t hesitate so. Look here, Duff, you want to marry Antoinette.” i "Os course." “Well, then, I expect my brother to support me in everything, so you’ll have to join once for all with me.” “What, the Vaudoux?" — “Yes, and I mean to be initiated at once.” “And yon want me to be initiated, too?” “Os course.” “Oh, very well —that is, if you will back me up with your sister and mother.” “Trust me for that; you shall have her.” “I’m ready, then; but I don’t like it. Hang it all, one hears all kinds of horrors about them.” “Old women’s tales. There, I’m going through the town. You can walk with me part of the way.” “Going over to the priest to see — ahem!” jf “Mind your own business. I'm going to take the first steps toward our initiation, so be ready to go any night I warn you.” “But ” “No hanging back; you have promised.” “Yes, and so have you,” said the young man, getting up languidly; “but I say, will there be anything to pay. Isn’t it something like the foreigners’ freemasonry?” “Nothing to pay, but some bottles of rum, and I'll see to them. Now come along.” They strolled off together down the shaded road leading to the town, passing plenty of suiky, defiant-looking mulattos and heavy-jawed, independent, full-blood-ed negroes, who generally favored them with a broad grin; but no sooner had they reached the far side of the town, and Deffrard had taken off his straw hat to wipe his streaming brow, than Saintone said in a laughing, contemptuous way: “There! Go home and cool ypurself. Be a good boy and the steamer will soon be here and you can go courting to yqnr heart’s content.” “I don’t like this Vaudoux business,” grumbled Deffrard to himself, as he Went one way. “I can make the fool useful,” said Saintone, with a sneering laugh, ana he went in the other direction, away toward where the slovenly plantations and the country began with its luxuriant growth, among which hiddtih here and there peeped out the cottages of the blacks, with their overgrown gardens full of melons running wild, yams, and broad flap-leaved bananas, looking like gigantic hart's tongue ferns. Etienne Saintone was so devoted to the object he had in view that he paid no heed toji gigantic-looking black whom he had encountered in thcnarrow track or lane running in and opt among squalid cottages, in front of which nearly' nude black children basked in the sunshine. But the black turned and looked after him curiously, and taking up an old and battered straw hat, frowned, and slowly fqjlowed in the young man’s steps as he went on for quite a quarter of a mile. the. cottages growing less frequent and superior in aspect, more hiddep, too, among the trees. All at once Saintone looked sharply round, as if to see whether he was observed; but as if expecting this, the black had thrown himself down beneath a rough fence, and if in his hasty glance Saintone saw anything, it was that common object of the country, a black basking in the sun. His glance round satisfied him, and he turned off sharply to the left; and, as he disappeared among the trees, the, black rolled over three or four times, by this means crossing the track and reaching the shelter'of the over-hanging foliage,

KT. ZS. “sV b™ jacket of the young man approaching, •nd had uttered a slight laugh, as hei eyes rlosed till only a glimpse of her dark pupils could be seen, as she watcm ed the track in a sidelong way, and begun to hum over a wild, weird ditty, one well known among the Haytian blacks, an air probably brought by some of their race from their native Africa. “Ah, Genie, dear,” cried Saintone, as he caught sight of the woman in the dark, shadowy interior. “Mass’ Saintone?” she replied, with an affected start and look of wonder. “Yes," he said, laying his hand upoq her shoulder. “How pretty you look to* day. Didn’t you see me coming?” “No, sah. I was busy here. What do you want?” ‘-What do I want? Why, I’ve come to see you, dear.” “Oh,” said the girl, coldly. “Mass’ Saintone could have come last week—two weeks —three weeks ago—but he never came. Thought you never come again.” “Ofe, nonsense! I’ve been too busy.” “Yes,” said the woman, quietly, “Mass’ Saintone’s always very busy; but he came every day.” “Yes, and I’m coming every day again, dear,” he said, as he threw his arm round her and tried to draw her to him. As he did so there was a faint sound as of a hissing breath at the back of the place, and Saintone looked sharply round. “What’s that?” he said. “Snake or little lizard,” said the woman, Coldly, freeing herself from his arm. “Oh, come, don’t do that,” said Saintone, laughing, as he tried again to catch her in his arms; but she eluded him, and her eyes opened wildly now. “No; go and make love to the new lady,” she said, spitefully. “What new lady?” he cried. “Why, you silly, jealous girl. I never loved any one but you.” “Lies!” said the woman, vindictively. “It’s true!” he cried angrily. “Come, Genie, don’t be so foolish.” “It is not foolish. That is all over. Go to her." “Why, you silly thing, I tell you I have been too busy to come.” “Yes, too busy to send a boy to say mass’ can’t. All lies.” ‘lGenie!” ‘T know. lam not a fool,” she said, scornfully. “Sit down, silly girl,” he cried. “There, I will not try to touch you; I’ll smoke a cigar. Look here,” hd*continued, as he lit the little roll of tobacco, “I’ll now prove to you how true I am. Do you know why I came to-day?” “Because you said Genie is a fool, and will believe all I say." “No,” he said in a low voice, as he leaned toward her. “I came up because I wanted you to help me, dear. I want to be more as if I were one of you.” The woman shook her head, and half closed her eyes; but he had moved her, and she watched him intently, as she stood shaking her head. “You understand me,” he whispered. “The Vaudoux, I want to join—to be one of you. There, do you believe I love you now?” “No,” she said, panting. “Don’t know what you mean.” “You do,” he whispered. need not try and hold me off. I know you are one of them." “One of the Vaudoux—you?” “Yes. You can take me to one of your priests, and let me join at the first meeting.” “The Vaudoux?” she said, opening her eyes widely now. “Ah, yes, I know what you mean. Oh, no; you could not join them.” They say it is all very dreadful and secret. No one knows who they are or what they do.” “Yes,” he said, laughing, “you do for one, for you could take me to join them.” “Oh, no,” she cried, with an eager movement of her hands, as if she disclaimed all such knowledge. “It is only the blacks who know of that.” “You are trifling with me,” he said. “You are offended because I have been away so long. Now' I have come and want to be nearer to you than ever, you refuse.” ’ ■ “What can ! do?*’ •: ’ “Take me to one of their meetings tonight.” “I?" cried the woman, shaking her head. “You play me with now-. How could I know’ ?” ' “You mean you will not,” he said, fuming. “Eugenie will not do what she cannot,"! replied the woman, coldly. “All very well,” he said in a cavalier way. “I daresay I can find some one else who will take me to a meeting; or, I don’t know! it does not matter. I daresay I shall give it up. Well, I must be off back.” “Going?” said the woman, coldly. “Yes, I am going now. A bit disappointed, of course, but it does not matter. Good-by.” (To be continued.) The Farmer and the Sportsman. j l A gentleman of means, and an enthusiastic sportsman, having purchased a country residence, began (to the astonishment of his neighbors) to devote his time to his gun and hounds, instead of the culture of his land. After a time an old farmer took a favorable opportunity to make some remarks upon his course, that was, in his view, not only profitless, but devoid of Interest. “If you will for one day go with me,” said the sportsman, “I think I can convince you that it Is intensely interesting and exciting.” The farmer com sented to do so; and the next morning, before daybreak, they wended their way to their hunting ground. The dogs soon scented a fox, and were off, and the two worthies followed, through woods and meadows, and over hills, for'two or three hours. At last the sportsman heard the dogs driving the game in their direction; and soon the pack, in full cry, came over a hill that had previously shut out the sound. “There! my friend,” said the sportsman, “there! did you ever hear such heavenly music as that?” The farmer stopped in an attitude of intense attention for some moments, and then said. “Well, the fact is, those confounded dogs make such a noise I can’t hear the music!” Do not nurse good intentions, but give them immediate exercise. *■t . •

r. ’ • I . I The Christian and Common-Beaae I View of Triala of Speed by th* Horae —Sin Bogina with Betting—The Way I to Drive a Horae. * I Race Course Evlla. In his sermon for last Sunday, Rev. Dr. . Talmage discussed a topic which for months past has been a familiar oiiofn the daily press—viz., "The Dissipations of the Race Course.” His text was Job xxxix., 10, 21, 25: "Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his , neck with thunder? He paweth in the valley end rejolceth; he goeth on to meet t the armed men. He saith among the trumpets, ha, ha! and he smelleth the bntt tie afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.” We have recently had long columns of Intelligence from the race course and multitudes flocked to the watering places to witness equine competition, and there is lively discussion in all households about the right and wrong of such exhibitions of mettle and speed, and when there is a her--1 esy abroad that the cultivation of a horse’s fleetness is an iniquity instead of a commendable virtue—at such a time a sermon is demanded of every minister who would like to defend public morals on the one ' hand and who is not willing to see an unrighteous abridgment of innocent amusement on the other. In this discussion 1 shall follow no precedent, but will give independently what I consider the Christian and common sense view of this potent, all absorbing and agitating question of the turf. A Noble Beast. There needs to be a redistribution of coronets among the brute creation. For ages the lion has been called the king of beasts. I knock off its coronet and put the crown upon the horse, in every way nobler, whether in shape or spirit or sagacity or intelligence or affection or usefulness. He is semihuman, and knows how to reason on a small scale. The centaur of olden times, part horse and part man, seems to be a suggestion of the fact that the horse is something more than a' beast. Job in my text sets forth his strength, his beauty, his majesty, the panting of his nostril, the pawing of his hoof and his enthusiasm for the battle. What Rosa Bonheur did for the cattle and what Landseer did for the dog, Job with mightier pencil does for the horse. Eighty-eight times does the Bible speak of him. He comes into every kingly procession and into every great occasion and into every triumph. It is very evident that Job and David and Isaiah and Ezekiel and Jeremiah and John were fond of the horse. He comes into much of their imagery. A red horse —that meant war. A black horse —that meant famine. A pale horse—that meant death. A white horse—that meant victory. Good Mordecai mounts him while Haman holds the bit. The church’s advance in the Bible is compared to a company of horses of Pharaoh’s chariot. Jeremiah cries out, “How canst thou contend with horses?” Isaiah says, “The horse's hoofs shall be counted as flint.” Miriam claps her.cymbals and sings, “The horse and the rider hath he thrown into the sea.” St. John, describing Christ as coming forth from conquest to conquest, represents him as seated on a white horse. In the parade of heaven the Bible makes us hear the clicking of hoofs on the golden pavement as it says, “The armies which were in heaven followed him on white horses.” I should not wonder if the horse, so banged and bruised and beaten, and outraged on earth, should have some other place where his wrongs shall be righted. I do not assert it, but I say I should not be surprised if, after all, St. John’s descriptions of the horses in heaven turned out not 1 altogether to be figurative, but somewhat literal.' i Honored of God. As the Bible makes a favorite of the horse, the patriarch, and the prophet, and the evangelist, and the apostle stroking his sleek hide and patting his rounded neck and tenderly lifting his exquisitely formed hoof and listening with a thrill to the champ of his bit, so all great natures in all ages have spoken of him in encomiastic terms. Virgil in his Georgies almost seems to plagiarize from this description in the text, so much are the descriptions alike —the description of Virgil and the description of Job. The Duke of Wellington would not allow any one irreverently ’ to touch his old war horse Copenhagen, on ( whom he had ridden fifteen hours without dismountings at Waterloo, and When old ] Copenhagen died, his master ordered a military salute fired over his grave. John 1 Howard showed that he did not exhaust all his sympathies in pitying the human l race, for when sick he writes home, “Has my old chaise horse become sick or spoiled?” There is hardly any passage of French literature more pathetic than the lamentation over the death of the war charger, Marchegay. Walter Scott has so much admiration for this divinely honored creature of God that in “St. Ronan’s Well” he orders the girth slackened and the blanket thrown over the smoking flanks. Edmund Burke, walking in the park at Beaconsfield, musing over the past, throws his arms around the wornout horse of his dead 'son Richard, and weeps upon the horse’s neck, the horse 1 seeming to sympathize in the memories. Rowland Hill, the great English preacher, 1 was caricatured because in his family prayers he supplicated for the recovery of a sick horse, but when the horse got well, contrary to all the prophecies of the farriers, the prayer did not seem quite so much of an absurdity. The Abuse of the Horse. But what shall I say of the maltreatment of this beautiful and wonderful creature of God? If Thomas. Chalmers in his day felt called upon to preach a sermon against cruelty to animals, how much . more in this day is there a need of reprehensive discourse. All honor to the memory of Prof. Bergh, the chief apostle for 1 the brute creation, for the mercy he demanded and achieved for this king of ' beasts. A man who owned 4,000 horses, i and some say 40,000, wrote in the Bible, • “A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.” Sir Henry Lawrence’s care of the horse, was beautifully Christian. He says: “I expect we shall lose Conrad, though I have taken so much care of him that he 1 may come in cool. I always walk him the last four or five miles, and as I walk myself the first hour, it is only in the middle of the journey we get over the ground." I The Ettrick Shepherd in his matchless , “Ambrosial Nights” speaks of the maltreatment of the horse as a practical blasphemy. Ido not believe in the transmi- , gration of souls, but I cannot very severely depounce the idea, for when I see men who cut ahd bruise and whack and welt

to me that it wohld be only fair that the doctrine of transmigration of souls shonid prove t»ue, and that for their punishment they should pass over into some poor miserable brute and be beaten and whack ed and cruelly treated and frozen and heated and overdriven—into an everlasting stage horse, an eternal traveler on a towputh, or tied to an eternal post, in au eternal winter, smitten with eternal epizootics. Oh, is it not a shame that the brute creation, which had the first possession of our world, should be so maltreated by the race that came in last—the fowl and the fish created on the fifth day, the horse and the cattle created on the morning of the • sixth day, and the human race not created until the evenijig of the sixth day? It ought to be that if any mam overdrives a horse,or feeds him when he is hot, or recklessly drives a nail into the quick of his hoof, or rowels him to see him prance, or so shoes him that his fetlocks drop blood, or puts a collar on a raw neck, or unnecessarily clutches his tongue with a twisted bit, or cuts off his hair until he has no defense against the cold, ov unmercifully abbreviates the natural defense against in sectile annoyance—that such a man ns that himself ought to be made to pull and let his horse ride! A Question at Speed. But not only does our humanity and our Christian principle and the dictates of God demand that we kindly treat the brute creation and especially the horse, but I go farther and say that whatever can be done for the development of his fleetness and his strength and his majesty ought to bo done. We need to study his anatomy and his adaptations. 1 am glad that largo books have been written to show how he can be best managed and how his ailments can be cured and what his usefulness is and whut his capacities are. It would be a shame if in this age of the world, when the florist has turned the thin flower of the wood into a gorgeous rose and the pomologist has changed the acrid and gnarled fruit of the ancients into the very poetry of pear and peach and plum and grape and apple and the snarling cur of the orient has become the great mastiff, nnd the miserable creature of the oldeu times barnyard has become the Devonshire, and the Alderney, and the Shorthorn, that the horse, grander than them all, should get no advantage from our science or our civilization or our Christianity. Groomed to the last point of soft bril.liance, his flowing mane a billow of beauty, his arched neck in utmost rhythm of curve, let him be harnessed in graceful trappings and then driven to the farthest goal of excellence and then fed at luxuriant oat bins and blanketed in comfortable stall. The long tried and faithful servant of the human race deserves all kindness, all care, all reward, all succulent forage and soft litter and paradisaical pasture field. Those farms in Kentucky and in different parts of the North, where the horse is trained to perfection in fleetness and in beauty and in majesty, are well set apart. There is no more virtue in driving slow than in driving fast, any more than a freight train going ten miles the hour is better than an express train going fifty. There is a delusion abroad in the world that a thing must be necessarily good and Christian if it is slow and dull and plodding. There are very few good people who seem to imagine it is humbly pious to drive a spavined, galled, glandered, spring halted, blind staggered jade. There is not so much virtue in a Rosinante ns in a Bucephalus. We want swifter horses and swifter men and swifter enterprises, and the church of God needs to get off its jog trot. Quick tempests, quick lightnings, quick streams; why not quick horses? In the time of war the cavalry service does the most execution, and as the battles of the world are probably not all past, our Christian patriotism demands that we bo interested in equinal velocity. We might as well have poorer guns in our arsenals and clumsier ships in our navy yards than ’’other nations, as to have under our cavalry saddle? and before our parks of artillery slower horses. From the battle ot Granicus, where the Persian horses drove the Macedonian infantry into the river, clear down to the horses on which Philip Sheridan and Stonewall Jackson rode into the fray, this arm of the military service has been recognized. Hamilcar, Hannibal, Gustavus Adolphus, Marshal Ney, were cavalrymen. In this arm of the service Charles Martel at the battle of Poitiers beat back the Arab invasion. The Carthaginian cavalry, with the loss of only 700 men, overthrew the Romdn army with the loss of 70,000. In the same way the Spanish chivalry drove back the Moorish hordes. The best way to keep peace in this country and in all countries is to be prepared for war, and there is no sue- <• cess in such a contest unless there be plenty of light footed chargers. Our Christian patriotism and our instruction from the Word of God demand that first of all we kindly treat the horse, and then after that, that we develop his fleetness, and his grandeur, and his majesty, and his strength. « An Atrocious Evil. But what shall I say of the effort being made in this day on a large scale to make this splendid creature of God, this divinely honored being, an instrument of atrocious evil? I -make no indiscriminate assault against the turf. I believe in the ' tuts if it can be conducted on right principjes and with no betting. There is no more harm in offering a prize for the ’ swiftest racer than there is harm at an agricultural fair in offering a prize to the framer w!.O has the best wheat, or to the fruit grower who has the largest pear, or ' to the machinist who presents the best corn thrasher, or in a school offering a prize of a copy of Shakspeare to the best reader, or in a household giving a lump of sugar to the best behaved youngster, i Prizes by all means, rewards by nil means. That is the way God develops the race. Rewards for all kinds of well doing. Heaven itself is called a prize, “The prize of the high calling of God in ■ Christ Jesus." So what is right in one • direction is right in another ■direction. ! And without the prizes the horse’s fleetness and beauty and strength will never be fully developed. If it cost SI,OOO or i $5,000 or SIO,OOO, and the result be i achieved, it is cheap. But the sin begins where the betting begins, for that is gam- : bling, or the effort to get that for which > yoirtgive no equivalent, and gambling, ■ whether on a large scale or a small scale, ■ ought to be denounced of men as it will « be accursed of God.-If you have won 50 ' cents or $5,000 as a wager, you had better i get-rid of it. Get rid of it right away. • Give it to some one who lost in a bet, or • giveSfto some great reformatory institution, or if you do not like that, go down ■ to the river nnd pitch it off the docks, i You cannot afford to keep it. It will burn t a hole in your.purse, it will burn a hole in

Multitudes ruined by losing worse ruined by gaining tl"flu man lose In a bet at a horn fl bo discouraged and quit. I’fl the bet ho is very apt to go fl bell! t , > An intimate friend, a* jmfl in the line of his profession ■ this evil, tells me that there fl ferent kinds of betting at lu'i'fl they are about equally lepnfl tion pools,” by "French 'fl what is called “bookrngkinfl bling, nil bad, all rotteijj "fl There is one word that nectlffi ten on the brow of every p il sits deducting his 8 or 5 p< > slyly “ringing up” more ticke sold on the winning horse- n written also on the brow of keeper who at extra inducenu te a horse off of the race and on every jockey who slackens pi . cordng to agreement, anotht and written over every judge written on every board of tl ing fences. That word VW“sv thousands bet. LawyerAfret courts bet. the bet. Members of On.rgress 1 sons of religion bet. Teacher intendents of Sunday schoob bet. Ladies bet, not directly- < agents. Yesterday, and eve' bet, they gain, they lose, and t while the parasols swing an< clap and the huzzas deafen, t a multitude of people cajoled f and cheated, who will at the n and neck, neck and neck to pe Cultivate the horse, by all i him as fast as you desire, pro’ not injure him or endanger others, but be careful and do the horse to the chariot of s throw your jewels of moralii flying hoof. Do not under th improving the horse destroy tl not have your name put down increasing catalogue of tho> ruined for both worlds by the of the American race course, that an honest race course is i track, and that a dishonest ra <r, ‘ a “crooked” track—that is 1 abroad—but I tell you that * track surrounded by betting n ting women and betting <m straight track—l mean stra Christ asked in one of his go»] a man better than a sheep?” and he is better than all the with lathered flanks ever shot ring at a race course. That is job by which a man in order to to come out a full length fflle other raeer so lames his own he comes out a whole length b< race set before him. Equine Honesty. Do you not realize the fact t a mighty effort on all sides to money without earning it? ' curse of all the cities; it is tl America—the effort to get mor earning it —and as other forms are not respectable, they go < gambling practices. I preach ' on square old fashioned hon£s said nothing against the horse, nothing against the turf, I ha — erything against their prostitut men, you go into straightforu tries and you will have better and you will have larger perncess than you can ever get by a you get in with some of the w blotched crew that I see goin the boulevards; though I never risk this Wager, $5,000,000 n you will be debauched and dart Cultivate the horse, own himl afford to own him, test all thß has, if he have any speed in ’ careful which way you drive. "B always tell what directionmfl ing in by the way his horses hefl boyhood, we rode three miles « bath morning to -the country clfl were drawn by two fine horses, fl drove. He knew them, and him. They were friends. Some® loved to go rapidly, and he didß sere with their happiness. HeH us in the wagon with him. the country church. The fact fl| eighty-two years he drove in tlfl section. The roan span that 1 was long ago Unhitched, and I put up his whip in the wagon li<fl again to take it down, but in fl old times I learned something tlfl forgot, that a man may admifl and love a horse and be proud I and not always be willing to tafl of the preceding vehicle, and ■ Christian, an earnest Christian! Christian, a consecrated Chril ful until the last, so that at his church of God cries out as 1 ► claimed when Elijah went up loping horses of fire, “My f: father, the chariots of Israel horsemen thereof!” The Water Tree. M. Ducharte recently made the French Academy of Selene suits of an experiment mat Maxime Lecomte in Congo up of the genus Musenga. Upoi incisions in the trunk of it na a pall at the foot of the tree, u ten quarts of pure water co] thirteen hours. The gorillas, are In the habit of slaking th at these hidden fountains, and the flow of liquid at will by p different-sized branches. Ma ago Dr. Wallich found in the of Martaban, Africa, a plant 5 to the same natural order, w and porous wood discharge wounded, a very large quan pure and tasteless fluid, wl quite wholesome, and was u beverage by the natives. T was named by Dr. Wallfch t vine, and has been placed in't Phytocrene, which signifies “pl tain.” These plants form a ble exception to the usual* cha the order, which embraces spf produce a milky juice—such, f pie, as the celebrated cow Palo de Vaca, of South Amerk yields a copious supply of a< wholesome milk, as good as tl cow, and used for the same p Public Opinion. At the lowest depth from w clmens of the bottom have beer up, 116 different species J)t were found.