Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 11, Decatur, Adams County, 24 April 1857 — Page 1

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VOL. 1.

THE DECATUR EAGLE. EVERT FRIDAY MORNING. fa ou Main Street, in the old School Home) T one Square North of J & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of* Subscription ! one v0ar..41 50. in nd rance; fl 75, within | Smooths; fr 2 00. after the year has expired ; Xj- No paper will be discontinued until all are paid, except at the option of the J&blisher. Terms of Advertising: ■One Square, three insertions, fl 00 ■tach subsequent insertion, , , advertisement will be considered less th*-’; one square; .ver one square « ill be counlt.j and charged as two; over two. as three, etc. JOS PRINTING. Jr".- are prepared to do all kinds of JOB ■pRK in a neat and workmanlike manner, on tSmost. reasonable terms. Our material for ; t® completion of Job-work, being new and of I the latest styles, we are confident that satisfaction can be given. Law of Newspapers. 1 Subscribers whodo not give express notice (■he contrary, are considered as wishing to | ofc.inns their subscriptions. • * If subscribers order tlie discontinuance ot ■, tlfir papers! the publisher niay continue to send ; tteia until all arrearages arc paid. , | 3 If subscribers neglect orrefu.se to ta«te their X-sfrom the office they are held responsible | fig they have Settled the bill and ordered the | Mr - discontinued. , , | If -übscribers remove to other places withniinformingthe publisher, and the paper is , seftt to the former direction,they are helu W-’The Court hav» decided that refusing of ..U-. naper I’rom the office, or r ni-'.ved and jgving it uncalled for is rains facie evidence of IriVlntional fraud. O' POP GOES THE Qi ENTION. ■ List to me, sweet maiden, pray, Pup goes the question! S Will ye marry me, yea or nay? Pup goes the question! IS I’ve no time to plead or sigh, I No patience to wait for bye-and bye, s Scare me now, I’m sure to fly, Pop goes the question! I "Ask papa!" Oh, fiddle de dee! Bop goes tht question! J Fathers and lovers can never agree! Pop goes the question! " He can’t tell what I want to know, '* Whether vou love me, dear, or no, ■ To ask him would be very “slo ' I" Pop goos the question! -gK I think we'd make a charm.ng pair Pop goes the question! "M| For I’m good looking and you very fair, Pop goes the question! ■K We'll travel life’s round in gallant Style, And you shall drive every ether mile, S Or, if it please you, all the while— A Pop goes the question! IM if we don't have an enchanting time. Pop goes the question! J I'm sure ’twill be no fault of mine. Pop goes the question! Tn be sure, my funds make a feeble show, s But love’s nourishing food you know, And cottages rent uncommonly low, |S Pop goes the question! .■.Then answer me quickly, darling, pray, Pop goes the question! ,11 ili you marry me, yea or nay ? Pop goes the question! ■l've no time to plead or sigh, HfNo patience to wait for bye-and-bye. Snare me now, or I’m going to fly. Pop goes the question! ,

»like if you meet Pat, tell bim to make ■ We Y’tre "-b, i will.' said Mike* ‘but what j ebaJl I tell him if I don’t mate hitfi? It has often been remarked that children will frequently ask questions which tvjn tl-.fe Wisest are puzzeld to answer. ( N*ther exclamed Charley, ‘how big was en you was a little girl ’ A Western editor thus delivers himself: GYe frould say to the individual who stole hulshirt off the pole, while we were lying ih bed waiting for it to dry, that we sincerely hope the collar may cut his threat.’ A member of the Lazy Club has just been expelled for going at a gait faster th»n a walk. The lecttssent offered in tnijgation of sentence the fact that the sheriir was after bim, bitt the society was A Goon One.—David Crocket happen- *">»•> be present at an exhib.tion of animals, some time ago, at least in the city °f asbington, where a monkey seemed f# gttracked his espescial attention and he kbßractedly observed: that fellow had on a pair of spectSties he would look like Major Wright of Ohio. tUS Ma i° r happened to be just behind ■fhekett, and overheard the observation, O gently tapped Davy on the shoulder, owning around Davy very formally remaked— /W’H hanged. Major, if I know whose pardon to ask, yours or the monkey's.

THE RECONCILIATON. A Story of Two Proud Hearts; BY MART At. STANLEY GIBSON. CHAPTER 1. A mild May morning, fresh, and pleasant, and bright; the soft air full of songs of happy birds; the wild Howers lifting up their heads in the sunshine; and the green leaves rustling and waving in the woods, as if they were whispering secrets to the gentle wind that stirred them. It was a lovely day—a day to be happy in. And yet a saddened look was visible on the sweet face of Faith Egerton, as she left the door of her house, and went slowly down the graveled walk that; led to the road gate. Her home—the home of her husband ; and children—was a pretty brown stone I cottage, overhung with vines, and surrounded by beds of fragrent flowers, Behind the house was a level and beautiful i grove, in whose cool recesses she had of- , ten lain, as a child, and watched the flick ering light and shade come down upon : the ground. For the earliest years of: Frith, as well as these latfcf dries, had been spent in this quiet place. Here she ( had been born—here her kind mother had i died—here she had lived with rt dear and only brother—here she had married her first love, and seen his children Springing up arround her, and here she hoped to close her dying eyes, with all the old { familiar scenes smiling in beauty arround her. She leaned upon the little gate, and looked wistfully up the road. She was waiting there for the coming of her best and earliest friead, and the sound of ' wheels made her start, and sent a color I into her pale cheek that had long been a i stranger there. A dusty stage coach i came whirling up beside the gale —stopped long enough for a lady to alight and ' give some orders respecting ner luggage, | and dashed away again. The newcomer • did not see Faith for a moment, so screened was she by the branches of a a wild rose that grew beside the gate.— She took off her travelling hat, exposing abroad high forhead, shaded by silky masses of black hair, a f".ce well-featured but grave and Sterri, and full of thought, and deep, dark eyes, Whose glances were kind, and whose smile was beautiful. How strange a contrast between those ! two Women. The one faif-haired and soft-eyed, with a meek and quiet face, ion whose features couierilttifcht and home hapiness was most plainly stamped; the other dark, and proud, and self-sustained with a look that said to the most careless observer, ‘Oh, I have suffered!’ Td one life had been a fair stltdmer’s day, with only now and then a light and happy cloud: to the other—ah,what to her, but a bleak and a stormy winter, where everything she loved lain down, and shriveled, and died? And yet they were of the same age—-the saffie station in life—- ! and side by side they had sat at school, ■ and played at home, in the childhood that. pay behind them! I The tears sprang unbidden to the eyes ■ of Faith Egerton, as she saw the steadfast I look with which the young girl regarded the scene around her. She lifted the latch of the gate, and stepped out beside her. ‘Gertrude—Gertrude Alewynne-won’t you speak to me?’ •Faith dear Faith, is it you?’ They were clasped in each other's arms lat once. Faith wept bitterly, but Gert- ' rude was pale and calm, and smoothed the fair hair of her friend with a caressing gesture, such as one might use to , soothe a little child.

•Come, Faith,’ she said at last, as if weary of her tears; ‘this is but a sorry welcome to give me after So long a journey. You know I never liked to see you cry.’ ‘But you are so changed—so changed, Gretrude.’ ‘Well, and if I am? It is six years since we met, dear Faith, and they have i not been marked with rose leaves for me. (You must not expect me to be quite the 1 same at twenty-one as at fifteen. Life !changes us all, you know ’ •I know,’ answered Faith, sadly. ‘But ■ ! never knew it so well till now.’ ‘Well, we will let that drop And now I are you not going to ask inc in after my journey from London?’ . ‘Pray, forgive me,’ said Faith, blushi ing at her inattention. ‘I will show you to your chamber myself. It has been 1 ready for vou all this week..' They went up the yard together. Two ' faifhairtd children fan out to the. door to ! meet theiff. . , The youngest, a boy of some two sumiffers, held up his little hands to Miss AII ewynne with a sunny smile. She stooped dtffrn and took him in her arms, and • walked along through the hall with Faith. •Are these your otfly ones?’ she asked. ‘Yes, and they are trouble enough for me ’ replied the mother, looking at the children with a fond stoile that betrayed how little the ‘trouble wa» felt

•“Our Country’s Good shall ever be our Aim—Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame."

DECATUR. ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, APRIL 24,1857.

Gertude sighed. •1 don’t know, Faith,’ shb said, brokenly. ‘Every one calls me cold and proud; perhaps I am. But when I take a little innocent child into my arifls, somethin" stirs in my heart that nothing else can touch. I might have, been a better and happier woman, Faith, if I had married. ’ This time it was Faith that sighed. ‘A ou know well what my favortie plan always was, Gertude. If you had onh married my brother ’ ‘Oh, Faith spare me,’ was the halflaughing answer. ‘But you would have loved him if you had only seen him,’ persisted Faith. He is so noble, so genet ous, so handsome.— He is only my half-brother, you know; but if he had been my own, I cuuid not have loved him better. By this time they had rearhbd the room which had been fitted fib for Gertrude. ‘Why, you have made a little Paradise for me, she said, with d pleased smile, as she looked around the chamber. ‘I shall never want to leave you, Faith.’ any pains of mine will keep you, I am corlteuted.’ ‘But Faith,’ said Miss Alewynne, detaining her friend as she was aoout to leave the room; ‘I never knew before that your paragon was only a half-brother.— Yc.tr maiden name was Faith Anderson, pfay what was his?’ •Walter Roscoe. He was the son of my stop mother. My own mother died when I was very yotfng.* ‘What! what was his name?’ I’he tone was sharp and impatent, but the speaker’s face was turned fro'rti Faith. ‘Walter Roscoe. My boy is named for him—Walter Roscoe Egerton.’ The jewelled hand that had been playing with the child’s "oft curls, was drawn away as if a rerpen:. had stung it, and Gertrude turned a white and rigid face toward her friend, as she put the boy down and pointed to the door. Gertrude, what ails you? Are you ill?’ cried Faith, in terror. .She caught the bell rope in her hand, but Miss Alewynne grasped her arm firmly. ‘Don’t ting; I shall be better soon,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘And Faith, for the sake of the old time when we were school girls together, say nothing of my illness to any otie, find ask me nd questions now. Leavertie for a little while, and to-mor-row I will tell yotl all. Wondering and perpleied, Faith left the room with her children, and went down the stairs. Her husband met her in the hall, and stopped to speak to her. ‘Has your friend arrived?’ he asked. ‘Yes, Aifed. Have you seen Walter?’ ‘I went to his office as you requested me to, my dear, and asked him to come up and dine. Hu consented, and was talking with me as usual, When 1 happened to mention Miss Alewynne’s name.— He started up and turned white—buthcre :he comes, Faith, and you can see for yourself how strange he is.’ He stopped speaking, and both turned towards the door as Walter Roscoe entered, pale and agitated. ‘faith, is it true? is she in this htfuSe?’ he asked wildly. ‘Miss Alewynne is here, Walter.’ He struck his hand upon his forhead *\Y hy was I not told that she was com

ing?’ •Don’t look so angry, dear Walter,’ pleded Faith. ‘I intended it as a pleasant surprise for yoti both.’ lie uttered an oath. •Oh, Walter, don’t! Don’t swear, and before these little children, too’.’ Cried Faith, bursting into tears. ‘You never did so before.’ •It was only on account of your, pleasant surprise,’ he answered, bitterly.— •Don’t ever try another. Faith. 1 have only come to say good-bye. The same house can never hold Gertrude 'he paused, and then added, as if with an effort, ‘Gertrude Ale Wynne and myself.’ ‘But why, Walter?’ asked Faith, clinging to him as he was turning away. — 'Have you ever met before?’ He looked at her with a strange smile. ‘Yes Faith. We metoncetoo often.’ ‘You knew Gertrude, and yet never spoke to me of her, when vou knew how much I wished you to iove each other,’ said Faith, reproachfully. Ob, Walter, I always thought I had your confidence!’ ‘And so you have, Faith; so you have, except in this one thing,’ he said, kindly, softened by her evident distress. ‘And when she has left you, I will come back afrd tell you all.’ ‘Not before?’ ‘Not before, Faftft. Let me go now.’ •Oh, Waiter, I would almost give my life if I could only see you two happy together.’ ‘Faith, Faith, how little you know of what you talk! That woman has embittered my life,- she has destroyed my confidence in every human being; she has deceived,’ and betrayed, and disgraced

me. And yet, I know, if I look but once ! upon her face, I should forgive her all; fur i loved her, Faith. I loved her more than my life. I must not see her, sister. When she lias left you, I will come back again—till then, farewell.’ tie kissed her fondly, shook hands with her husband, and patted the golden hi/ads of the children, and was gone.— 1 The young husband sifid linked , as-! ter him wistfully. A cloud seemed to have covered the bright spring sky, and the little parlor of the cottage seemed lonely and deserted when they entered it, because of the mystery, which might be guilt, that was even then sheltered with, in its peaceful walls, CHAPTER 11. Walter Roscoe, turning away from his sister’s home, thought sadly of the many days that must elapse before he entered i it again. Os Gertrude he told himself again and again he would not think; and; again and again her image came up before ' him. as he had seen her last. ‘Have I not wronged her?’ he thought, as he paced the flodr of his office that! evening. ‘ls it not possible she may bt innocent, even though appearances were; against her? Shall I see her once more? Pshaw!” what a fool I ami Did I not see ■ her there beside him? Did 1 not see his lips meet hers? If 1 asked, for better proof than my >wn eyes have given me, 1 must be a madman. I will leave this j place, and never con*" back till she has ! gone away. Hb thteit a few things into a valise, ’ locked the writing desk beside him, and stepping Htlt into the Stieet, valise in htifid . shut up his office and walked slowly tip! street. The hotel where- he boarded was | at a long distance from the garden of his j sister's hottse, and yet it was there he , found himself after a hurried walk of some ! five minutes. He lifted the latch of the ’ little gate and entered. ‘lt is the last time, Gertrude, that I shall be so weak,’ he murmured, as he | looked up at the vine curtained window,! where a lamp was still burning. ‘The j last time I shall be so near you! Oh! Gertrude, can you dream what you have done, or is your heart all marble? lie buried his face in his hands, and | wept like a child. The memory of the happy hours he had spent with ’ her, came over him too strongly to' be borne. He could only meet such re-, membiaiiees with his tears. When he looked up again, ho was con- ; scious of an unusual bustle in the house, j Lights were moving hurriedly in several! directions, and once or twice he caught a| glimpse of his sister’s figure, passing the i window of Gertrude’s room. What could ! it be? Was Gertrude ill? His heart stood still at the thought.— He could bear never to look upon her face I again; but oh, the grate must not cover, it from him! He sprang up the path and was about to enter, when the doc: opened and Alfred Egerton came out. ‘You here, Waiter? he exclaimed, star- j ting back, as the pale face of his brother me', his eye. ‘Faith just told me to go'i for you, when I had summoned the doctor, i ‘The doctor! said Walter, turning pale as he found his worst suspicions realized, i •Who wants the doctor? ‘Miss Alewynne is very ill. She is threatened with the brain- fever, I think. ‘Oh, my God!’ The unhappy man staggered, and caught at his brother.s hand to steady himself. Alfred looked at him a moment, arid then Said soothingly—‘Walter, it will not do for ine to stay here a moment. But go in and see Faith. She will comfort you.’ He rung his hand strcpatbizingly, and , hurried away. Half blind with his un-j shed tears, the unhappy young man entered the honse, and seeing his sister sitting at her writing desk in the parlor,! sank down at her feet, and hid his face' in her lap. ‘Will she die, Faith?’ ‘1 hope net, mv poor Walter. But, she is very ill,’ answerad Faith, laying! her hand upon his head. ‘Our own doc- j tor is with her now, and Alfred ha - just gone for another. ‘What are you doing?’ lie asked, looking up at the half-finished note before her. j •Writing to her brother to come to her,’ I ‘I did not know she h id one faith.’ ‘Oh, yes. I have never seen him, hut she has sent me his picture once. You know,’ she added with a faint blush,’ it was quite a dream with us when we were girls—that is she wished me to marry her brother, and I wanted her to marry mine.’ ‘I knoiy—l know,’ said Walter,and an indefinable expression of pain flitted over his face. “And soslie sent me Edward’s pictuie. Would you like to sue it, Walter?, ‘Yes.’ She opened her writing-desk, and taking out a small inlaid case, gave it to hit#. He gave one startled glance at it—another —and the picture fell from his hands, and he uttered a loud cry. ■Oh, Gertrude' Ob, my poor wife’’

‘Gertrude, your wile!’ exclaimed his startled sister. ‘Oh, Waltef, when will these mysteries cease?’ ‘Mow—with this moment,* he answered, rising and seating himself beside her. ,'You shall hear ail—you deserve ft! j Faith, you have had your wish. For' twelve months she has been my wife ’ •Oh, Walter!’ ! ’Don't interrupt me. I knew, long ago, what your wish was. But 1 wanted to judge of Gertrude for myself. I knew she thought you were my own sister, and she met. me as Walter Roscoe, at a fashionable watering-place, without a suspi- , cion of my identity. I found her all you ! had so often described. I followed her to her home, and she was still more lovelv there. Still I did not make myself known ills your brother. Perhaps I had a fancy j foroneof your ‘pleasant surprises,’ Faith ’ j f ‘Oh, go on, dear Walter.'’ I ‘I married her, Faith, and Was looking ■ forward to a happy meeting, with vou.— ilt was the second evening of our mar-1 ! riage; and I Lad walked out with a friend to whom I wished to say good-bye. The | moon had risen before 1 returned, and as 1 laid my hand upon the latch of the gate,! ; I remember looking up, and thinking' what a tranquilly beautiful aspect she wore, and how perfectly happy I was.— Faith, I have looked at the moon many times since, bat she never wears that | lovely face for me now.' He paused and sighed. Faith kissed i' i him tenderly and waited for the cbriclui :ion of the story. ‘Well—it must all be told. I entered! I the house quietly, thinking to surprise' Gertrude with tl kiss, as she was watch- i jingfor me. 1 foitnd her-—oh, Faith—l: I fottnd her with her lips pressed to those ; of another, and her arm round bis neck!’ Faith uttered an indignant cry. ‘Brother, there must be some mistake ' .here. Gertrude is good and pure. 1 I knoW it.’ ‘Thank you for sayingso,’ he answered with a melancholy smile. ‘I know it, too, now—‘would to Ued I had known it then:. i ‘But what did you do, Walter?’ ‘What would any man do, Faith- I : sprang upon him like a tiger—she threw ! herself between us. He was about to | • speak, but she cried out —'Not a word — ' j nut a word—if you love n]e!’ Think of it, | ! Faith! If he loved her! Was it not I enough to madden me? 1 was mad, I j I believe. I cursed ht: bitterly—l callen * her wzritbn and tin faithful. She hadlis-! ; tened in silence till then—then she turn- j led very pale and looked at me. I can ! 1 hear her saying now in a deep, low voice- I | ‘After that, I can never be more to rot!.’ | I She turned away and took his arm. They i I left the room, and I—l let them go.— j ! Yes, Faith—l was too heart-broken to avenge myself. 1 was too deeply deceived j to lilt my hand even when my wife left .the room with one I fully b dieved to be pier paramour. From that night we have I ! never met. and only two cold and brief ' letters have passed between u, ’ j ‘Oh, Walter! This is what has changed her so! ‘ls she then changed'” he Asked eager’s. ' I ‘She has grown cold, and hard and; ' proud—and she is sad —oh, little like the Gertrude of my schooldays.” I 'She has been dHriEirlg of a Bitter cup, and my hand held it lo Icr lips. Now hear the rest, Faith Half-an-hour ago j I believed hfer guilty. But that fatal pic-! ture shows me the same face I saw on that i accursed night. It was her brother.’ 'And she never told you so! ‘You little know Gertrude, I see. I wounded her in the tenderest spot. She is the soul of truth and honor; but if one should doubt her, Wo be to him. And I —-c/h, what a fearful doubt was mine! I , i wronged her deeply and she was far too j proud to forgive me. Will she ever do it I .! Faith? ‘She will—she rritist!' cried Faith, ear-! ' nestly. ‘lt has been a terrible mistake. 1 i but lets us trust that it will go will. 1 i see it a’.i now. Not till to-day did she know ! that ycri Were tfty half-brother—not till I I to-day did she dream that Walter Roscoe j and you were one. Oh, how much she must have suffered” A low knock came at the half-open j door c'f the parlor and Alfred Egerton en- : tercd. ‘1 have been for the physician. Faith,’ |he said hurriedly, 'and both have seen | her. J have the best of news for you.— I The saj it is only the long and hurried journey, and great mental excitement that I has prostrated her so. They have left her quite comfortable, r.r. ’ ■b.< .. i:cd for you. Will you go up and sec her while I sit with Walter? Faith grs«ped her husband’s hand and looked up to him with beaming eyes. ‘You were ever a messenger of glad tidings to me. Alfrc ' and n to reward you, you shall heai mine. She related what she had already heard in a few brief words, anil then stealing her ; hand in his, asked—• Now what is to bo done? • ‘I should say my dear Faith, that the sooner those two an: brought together the

better,’ said Mr. Egerton, when his astonishment allowed him to speak. ‘I knew you would say so. Walter. : follow me, and Alfred, wait here; I will be back in a few moments.’ , They went quietly up the stairs togethlefto Gertrude’s room. Leaving Walter at the door, Faith entered, and went tip to the bed-side. The young girl was lying half-asleep in bed. The traces of tears were on her cheeks, and a small gold loct kef lay open in her hand. A rapid glance assured Faith iliai ft, was her picture, and she bent down and kissed . her friend. Getrude started—looked up, and, tried to hide the picture. But some second thought prompted her to lay it ift Faith's hand, and With a sad smile—‘Y’ou seel know him.’ i ‘ls that all, Gertrude?’ said Faith gentlr. ‘All!’ said the girl springing up in bed, arid tossing the black hair from her forehead. ‘Listen Faith. 1 loved him mure than any earthly thing-—I rtiaFHed Lim, a , year ago, thotigh J r.ete!' knew he was I your brother til! to-day. He held my very heart in his hand, and crushed it tc atoms. He had no faith in me—in me—who would not have wronged him for worlds. Oh, Faith, though he is jour brother, be has made ray life a weary thing to bear. Leave me—to morrow ! will | tell you more—but now I am to weak.’ She sank back upon her pillows and i covered her face with her heads. Faith ; stole noiselessly away, and Walter ente- ■ red and took her place. All was r.ilent fora few moments. The girl asked ! without looking up. ‘Faith are you there?’ ; It was a,stronger arm than Faith’s tha£ was afdtind her, and a moustached lip ■that kissed her hand. She looked up iu sudden bewilderment, and saw her husI hand bending over her wilt, bis blue eyes ! full of tears. The sudden joy was too much for her—arid all her pride was swept ! away ift a moment. ‘Walter—it was my brother,’she mur- . mured. ; ‘I know it, decrest—l know all But can you ever forgive me, Gertrude?’ , ’Forgive!’ ; There was ab .utiful smile upon her [ lip as she drew i.im near-r, and kissed j him passionately The estrangement of a yeas wasall h r-ittenin that bewildering letum of happiness. Fa’tb "tept silently ; for joy, upon her husband’-: shoilder, in ■ the little parlor below. And believe me, j the angels in Heaven rejoiced to see so I perfect and cc.uplete a reconciliation belt ween those ptoud and loving hearts.— | For those Who forgive are dqar in tho j sight of Him who has forgiven' Rather Strong. Why is it iny son, that when you drop ! your bread and butter, it is ; 'rt-avs th* i butter side down.’ i 1 don’t know. It hadn’t ought to, had ! it? The strongest side ought to be uppermost, hadn’t it ma? and this yere ii some of the very strongest buttes I ever 'seed. | ‘Htisli up; it’s seme of ycur aunt’s I churning.’ ■Did she churn it? The great lazy thing. ‘What, your aunt.’ ‘This yere butter. To make that poor 1 old woman churn it, when it is strong enough to churn itself.’ •Be still, Ziba; it only wants working ! over / ' ' • . : ‘Well, marm, if I's yon, when 1 did it, I’d put in lots of molasses! •You good-for-nothing! I've ate a great deal worse in the most nristocrßttfl New Y ork hoarding houses! ‘Well, people of rank ought to eat it.' ‘why people cf rank 9 ’ ‘Cause it’s rank butter.' ‘You varmint, you! What makes you 1 talk so smart?’ 'The butter's taken the skin off my i ton>>ue, mother.’ ‘Ziba, don’t lie. I can’t throwaway the butter. It. don't signify.' I ‘I tell you what I'd do with it marm. I'd keep it to draw blisters. You ought to see the tl.ies keel over and die as soon as they touch it.’ ‘Ziba, don’t exaggerate; but here’s tweniy-five cents, go to the sto're. and | buy a pound of fresh butter.’—-V. K. Picayune. I A Wapfy COUPI.E. — An American paper—it mu<t be American —tells a story lota wedded couple, who, with one table and one b l, Lave not spoken to one another for eight years. They are on the best of terms, and no doubt for that reason. I The Y ankee however, tells us that ‘each is to proud to speak first.’ If such are i the fiuits of pride, how foolish it is to attempt to tiarh woman humility!— 1 Punch. Expensb of Finding a Baby at yocr Door. —ll singular legal ease has just been concluded in Cincinnati. The defendant Ifi years ago found an infant upon his door steps and left it ala humane institution. He is now made to pay 8150 per year for its support ever since

NO. 11.