Decatur News, Volume 3, Number 34, Decatur, Adams County, 16 October 1901 — Page 3

he- fjb IX-LL Ll’ J' iU *■’Lu i LL| I Whits Hand; j A Taloof the EariySefflers: : ’ 4 of Louisiana, ’ I BY AUSTIN C. BURDICIV; CHAPTER Xl.—(Continued.) Coqualla blushed and hung down her head when she saw the people .gazing upon her, aqd hep companion trembled violently. But they ’ were not left long in suspense. Stung Serpent was absent; hut the Great Sun stepped-down fromr sM ! thrit 'hbioccupied, And from one of the attendants he took a bow and an arrow. and a'crowfa of feathers, to which was affixed an oak twig. The latter he placed.upon. White Hand’s head, and the weapons he plapedj ip his hand. Then to Coquhlla the old chief gave a laurel twig and an ear of corn. T ' “My? son,” then spoke the'Gr^at: Sun, in a solemn andMihpressive tone, “I, as the eldest male relative of the bride, do now bestow her upon thee. Thou hast been crowned with, the plumage of the soaring bird, which signifleth the power of command you shall exercise in the household. The twig of oak tells us that the depth of no forest can prevent thee from procuring food in times of need; while the bow and arrow in thy hand eignifieth thpt even unto death thou wilt protect her who is now given unto thee for a wife.” Then the Great Sun turned to the bride! “Qdqualla, in thy 'hahd thou boldest the-twig of laurel—the emblem of purity. So wilt thou ever remain pure and unsullied, that the green laurel may be no more pure than art thou. The ear of corn thou hast also assumed. Never let thy household want for food whilst thou art thus provided.” Then the chieftain resumed his seat, and the same old man who had led’White Hand to the temple stepped forward and delivered a sort of after Which the couple were hailed as man and Wife. In the midst of these rejoicings, the entrance to the house was darkened, and in a moment more Stung Serpent stood within the place. He looked upon White Hand, and his brow darkened, but a close observer could have seen that the look was assumed. •. ■- ; j < t J* > ; 1 f “Who hath dope this?” he demanded,' in a loud tone. “L my brother,’’ answered the Great 1 Sun. “They loved each other well, and I gave thy child away.” Stung Serpent bowed his head a few moments, and when he looked up again his brow was clear. “Then my promise is made void,” he said; “for no man can h/rrri the huriband of his child. White Hand,* tfidu art'safe with us; but remember thine oath!’,’ “The husband of thy child will not break his promise,” spoke the White Hand, solemnly. . “It is well. lam in season for the festivities.” .* And thereupon the festivities commenced, and they were kept up till late in the evening, and then the newly married couple were conducted to a dwelling that the king gave ‘them. Ti was just back of the house of Stung Serpent, and was within the line of the great circle of dwellings, but its post of honor was marked by its nearness to the abode of the Great Sun. . • - , ,? After the newly married pair had been conducted to their dwelling, the youth felt a hand BP.on. hia arm, and on turning he saw the Great Sun. , r . . ■ “White Hand,” he said, 'follow me, for the Great Sun-of the Natchez has (much to say to thee.” - f r_-• i Full of wonder, the youth followed the king from the place, but he did not fear, for there was only kindness in the tones of the 'monarch. On they went until they reached a gigantic oak that stood jn the ver/ center of the village, arid here •the Great Sun stepped. “White Hand,” he said, in a low, solemn tone, “thou hast sworn to my brother that tjiop wilt not betray* thyself, to •thy countrymen, nor leave the village of the White Apple without our consent. Only six miles from here is the fort and village of the white man; so thou seest how great is-the trust we repose in- thee.” “let I will not break my word,” said the youth, while a spirit of awe crept over him. There, was something grand ana sublime, in the scene about him, and fie could not shake off the impression that a sort of mystic fate was being worked out in without a'flldud.' and tthe jniriidlstars were twinkling like tiny .eyes of fire away 'off |n the dark.i&£i£ iThelhrpiuL smooth plain stretched off like a mystic lake, while the huts of the Natchez were dimly visible to the great circle.'-S-i • “White t Hand,” resumed the, dark monarch, “I do not think that the Great Spirtt ~of our people- is the same God that made the white man.- ■? The country away bejmnd the-great laker they tell me, is full of white men, and your God has given theft. like ‘our flri’frs/ They pray to thpjr Gbd for vengeance on the Natchez, and the dread vengeance comes. the swift storm at night, and like .the bound of the beast of prey,. it comes upon us. My son, thou canst 'JO.r “Tfeepfvilt th?u not pray for the -Natchez 7 Wnt thou not.; pray that llelwll! send no more calamities upon us? Thou art good, and true, and noble.' What say-, est thoti?” A strange truth -now flashed upon the youth’s mind. The Indians, in their simple dread ,ot .the: white man's God, had believed that if they could possess one of the true worshipers of ‘fhat God, arid persuade htoi tb'’intercede'for them, the calamities that resulted from the prayers of their enemies might be averted. Yet White Hand did not wonder, for he knew how simple were the ideas that the red men entertained, of their own Deity. Apd‘, moreover, he knew that the Indians had often heard the monks praying, and when he remembgrpd how direct and common were the appeftfa; tttus: made, he did not question the Influence it mubt have dpon those who were wont to , regard .Deity as a being ?to be propitiated with gifts! and outer show. The youth’s first thought was to try and correct the error into which the chief had fallen; but when he came ,to reflect that in such a Work he should have to uproot the prejudices of a lifetime, he resolved tb do as was asked of him.

HMM .ers as quickly as those of any of my people, and so far as the Nntehes are in the right, will I pray for them.” “And’ thou wilt fell him all the wrongs weluffpfi arid/all jthe iudfcuities (hat anb heaped! 4pbplWf £ ‘ If. C’’ “I will,” replied White Hand. “Than thou shalt be-the well-beloved of the Natchez. Let us return now, and sis we JgO, J will tell thee more, The white chief at Rosalie is called Chopart. : He is a bad man, and ft liar. I dare not tell thee all the evil he has done. But : he has robbed us of our cattle, and we can have no redress. He has encroached upon our lands, and we canriot drive him off. But O! the day of deckoriing rriust come. Beware, my son, that thou lettest not thy sympathy run with these bad men,, for, the hour is nigh at hand—•the hour of vengeance and retribution!” The king spoke no more, only to bid White Hand good-night when they reached the dwelling, and soon the youth- was with his princess. -Truly-his situation was a strange one, and that night he prayed long and fervently, but he dared not let his wife know all his prayer. - CHAPTER XU. . ; On the very evening that White Hand reached the village of the White Apple a party of Chickasaws stepped upon the northern shore of Lake Pontchartrain. They were ten in number, and with them was a prisoner, who now reclined against a small hickory tree. Her silken gowri' ii tom and soiled by the thorns and bushes through which she has been led, and the thin shoes are worn through till the feet have become sore and bleeding; for the way she has come has. been a hard one. and many sharp bramble has bestrewn the path. But she rests now. The flames dart up from a fire near at hand. Sick and faint, she sinks down upon the soft mossy bed at the toot of the tree, and ere long all her dangers and troubles ara forgotten in sleep. _ The fair prisoner, ever and anon starts up with frightful dreams, until at length, when the night is far spent, she is aroused by strange sounds near at hand, amid which .she can distinguish the clash Os arms and the hum,of. angry-voices. ..The idea of escape breaks upon her mind. A moment she gazes arourid, fend she secs meh* in conference about her, with weapons drawn,.'and voices raised: as if in anger, She moves only a, step, and a hand is laid upon her shoulder. A stout Chickasaw holds her fast and .tells her she cannot escape. In a moment more the , Chickasaw' is pushed rudely aside, and Louise looks up into the moon-lit face of Simon .Lobois! “Ha!” he cries, with well-assuriiefl astonishment, “and was my suspicion correct? Have I found my beloved .thus dragged away by ruthless savages? Early this morning a runner brought the news to New Orleans that a white girl was being carried off by the Cliickasaws, land that, their trail bent towards the great lake. A mystic voice whispered thy name in my ear. Why it was I know not; but I started, and I have found thee. Look up, sweet Louise, for thou art safe. Thou art rescued I” The maiden’s first emotion seemed to be to shrink from the white mari, but in a moment more she gave him her hand. “And am I free from these she asked, gazing first into Simon’s face arid then upon the motley crew about her. “Ay, thpu art, Louise. Do <you not see: that tidy are all quelled? Heaven must have directed me to this spot Fear no more, for thou shalt be safe with me.” Under any other circumstances, Louise, might have been frantic with joy at such Salutation, but now. she was. pioved by so, .many conflicting doubts that the edmirig' of the rescuers seemed tri inove her.but little. By the bright moonlight she cbuld see the erpw about her, arid'they- did riot i look like deadly enemies. No one was ' wounded, nor did any one appear to be hurt. To be sure, there had been the sound of strife, but it may have only been, a mock battle after all. At any rate, so', ran the maiden’s thoughts, though she kept them to herself. — “Come,” continued Simon, after waiting some moments for an answer that he did not receive—“come' with me now. The savages will not dare to harm you more, nor will they dare molest us.” Louise suffered herself tO be led to the shore of the lake, and there she found two 'boats in waiting. She had been seated in .one of them when the chief of the Chickasaw party came down and called Simon back. £ A bitter smile stole-over, the maiden’s face as she saw this, h anfl her suspicions were well confirmed when she saw Lobois follow the red man up the bank.' But the cousin‘returned in afew, moments, and having seated himself, by the. plde of Louise, the boats were maimed and shoved off. “The red’ dog wanted me to, promise that I would not expose his crime to-the Governor,” said Simon, attar the -boats Ijavf made thein all prisoh'ers, only that 'I f&red *you''mtghW!W”harTned> in themelde. I You did not notice how..wa came. u P £ a t l el ?! and oec uiTe<L did youl” I pimon ewarply, ijua jhis comiai|io4’s fap<Q4 LeAhua FW e / as -fiioufch|he| wouldf^|d|aiA suijieijn|she migflt aol<|. , “»sak hothing watil l.wa&.grasped. bx. • &e fhoiildex,’.’she truthfufly-replied, L was sound asleep when you came.” “»> Dthought. But I will explain: One of tie knen who accompanied me knewthe yaiuous trails that lead to the lake, and me | guided us here. We: landed, and Iwe foimd the Indians asleep, all save one fl bit they were upon -their feet by the lirqe we were up. with them, and I some of them'had grins. At -that'| moment I espied/you asleep- upon the grolmd. In an instant I forbade my t<4 fire, • for I feared you might be hit. ? I told the leader of the Indians that j be was {discovered,* and that if he did not giveiup his prisoner,- I would have- the whole French force down upon his people before another sun had set. And I furtherpore told him that if he would quietly'deliver up the maidfen, we would not hartn him. A scuffle ensued between somq the red men and two of my companions, but we quickly stopped it, and the |ndians agreed to give you up if we woufi let them depart in peace. J consented, (arid —you Ipiaiy the .rest Was it .not that I heard the report this : morning ?-y-and w»B jit .not veryj fortunate that- 1 hriavpn wlfispirpd |o! tpe : that you might be the prisoner?” “Il very fortunate,” returned Louise. . . . .r .. * . x • “And perhaps you think it was strange,” added Simon. “But yet I had some ground for the fear. The runner

I tola me that the Iridian, were on the JTbekfah trail, and I could think of no place from whence they- ceul<| havri brought a young white maiden captive in that direction save from the estate of. our father. 1 say our father, for surely ‘the has been a father io riie. The, more |I thought of the matter, the more con.•firmed my fears became. A French ship lay in the rUer, and I easily sqme .of her men to come with me. O, Louise, do ybu realize how great is the 1 blessing thus "fallen upon you? What must have been your fate had I not found you as I did?”. , ; But the maiden did not reply. She was thinking how flimsy and improbable was* the story her companion had told, and shfe wondered if he thought her such a simpleton /as to believe’'ail he said. “Do you realize what a fa|e must have been yours?” Simon urged. “A .death of torture, of a life of misery.” “I know the Indians are sometimes Revengeful, but I do: not think they would have, murdered a defenseless girl,” said Louise. “Ah, you do not know them. Yoq do not know' these Chickasaws. They are monsters of cruelty!’’ f . ; “And yet they have been very kind tri me.” ■ “Kind, Louise? Then why are you so pale and •wan?—arid why so feeble?” “Because I am not Well. T ; am sick. Last night I had a sevfere fever, but lay captors prepared some medicine from roots that they found in the earth, and it relieved me ; at once.” “Ah, that was but to hold you iup on your journey. But you are sick, even now. Let me fix a.place for repose.” Simon spread a blanket upon the'boat’s bottom in the stern sheets,, and fixed,it so that Louise could lay her head upon one of the thwarts, and when this was fixed, she availed herself of the opportunity for rest thus afforded, for she wa's in truth sick and faint, and flead ached. It ; was not all the result of mere fatigue or fright, but disease had absolutely fastened upon her—a slight cold,' perhaps, ftt y first, but now verging to a fever.’ \ : ' Yet. Louise slept, ,when she awoke, she foprid the sun Ahining down |ull upon hen and! the boat had reached the southern shore.' - She was/ assisted tc land, but she cOuld riot walki However* horses were hand, /irifi when'she wftg , seated ip the saddle, I the party 'started across the lapd New. Orleans, which they: reached before noon. The place contained not mrire than a hundred dwellings; arid those Were humble aHd primitive in form. The territory of the town had been laid out into squares, sixty-six in njmnber, of three hundred feet each. These squares'were eleven in number-upon the river, And six in depth/ so that with all the obstacles of the natural statfe of the land, its geographical position had marked, out in th? mind, of its founder as the nucleus of a mighty, city. His quick and comprehensive mind j understood the advantages of the position in a commerciar point df View, for he saw that here was the natural point between ocean and inland navigation. To a low, wooden Souse on Bourbon street was Louise conducted, and at- het own request She Was at once shown to a bed, and a physician sent for. An Old negro woman, named Loppa, came tc wait upon , and ip a little while the physician came. He was an old man, and well skilled in drugs. He examined the patient’s pulse, her tongue, and asked numerous questions, and* then announced that with care she might be wel' in a very few days. : ‘ During the rest of that day and the, following night, Louise saw no more of Simon Lobois. Het head ached much but . finally the old doctort pbtions quieti ed the nervojjs action, aind jate 'ln the evening she- sank into; a< geptle slumber On the- following morning she felt much better/ so that the doctor smiled when he came. Iri three days from that time she was fairly recovered from her disease, though she was Very weak, partly from the severe, shock she had received, : and partly, from the effects of the inedi-: clnfes she had taken. At all events, the physician deemed it not necessary to call again, and only ordered now that his patient’s diet should be strictly attended to. As Louise thus ; began to regain hex strength, she wondered when Simon Ix> bois would take her home. She had asked him once, but had gained no direct answer. (To be continued.) “Hit Me; I’m Big Enough.” He wasn’t very Mg, but be was a ■ sturdy little chap with a face that bore the marks of much- thinking and premature responsibility. I learned after i ward that he was supporting a crippled mother and ap invalid ‘ sister who. had been left -helpless in the world by the death of her father. He might-have run away from hom? and responsibility, but he didn’t think of it He just sold papers. At thfe loop on 15th street a crowd . was.gathered, waiting fQE..the..evening . sagged.. flowers at the 15th, street end of flu txj Ijil*iFy3oa.T jjfioipwl h«iwinst flu W 4 biiillO >Vlty<ltoppi agi probably not having noticed what h< ‘ had the boy stepped in front OTW, d« fiantfly. . ! “Say, whet-do you- want to knock girl down'for? me; I’m big enough.’ The' inai paused In surprise, and thex glanced around- He saw the flower git picking up her wares, and understood ■ {Without a moment’s hesitation he wen: back to her, gave, her money enough to make her eyes sparkle with joy, and said: “I’m sorry, my dear, that I hurt you. I didn’t see.” Then, turning to the boy; he continued: “You said you were big enough,.young man, but you’re a great deal bigger than you think. Men ybu Will have a lot to do with keeping this oM world In a condition of self-, respect” Then he caught his car and the boy and the girl stood there wondering what he meant—Denver TTrnes. w’> Memory. • Ffom 12$ answers! to questions p|ibj fished two or three years Ago,.'Messrs.* V. and C. Henri find that a person’s first memory may be of an extent occurring as early as the’ age of 0 months or as late' as 8 jnara—2 to A ffesrs being the usual age.

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1 11 jHKsIhI HW I ‘ 11 fl I 111

(Copyright, Louis Klopsch, 1901.) , BIJI this discourse Dr. Talmagp ,det scribes some of the scenes to be witnessed late at night in the great cities and warns the uh wary Os many perils; text, Isaiah Xxi., 11, “Watchman, what bf the night?” When night came down on Babylon, Ninevet/ and Jerusalem thqy caretul watching; otherwise the incendiary’s torch 1 might have bfeen thrust' into the very hriifrt of the metropolitan hpleridor, or enemies, marching from the hills, might'have forced the gates/ AU night long, -on top of the wall and in front, of the gates, might be heard the measured Step of the watchman on fiis solitary beat. Silence hung iri air, savfe as isome passerby i-aised the question, “Watchman, what of the night?” It is to me a deeply suggestive and solemn thing to see a standing guftrd by night. It thrilled through me as at the gate rif an arsenal in Charleston the question once smote me, “Who comek there?” followed by the sharp command’,“Advance arid give the countersign.” Every morak teacher stands on picket or patrols the wall as watchman.. His wqrfc is to sound the alarm, and whether it be in the first watch, in the second watch, in ttie third watch or in the fourth watch to be vigilant until the daybreak flings its “m'drning ’• glbries'’ of 1 blooming ‘ cloud across the trellis of the sky. ! _ The ancients divided their night/ into four parts—the first watch. to 9; the second, from 9to 12; third, fsom ' 12 to 3, and the fourth, from 3 to, 6. I speak now of the city In the third watch, pr from 12 to 3 o’clock. I never weary of looking upon the life of the city in the first watdh. That is the hour when the stores are closing. The laboring men, . having quitted the B£af; folding and the shop, are on their way home. It rejoices me to give them my seat iri the city car. They havb stood and hammered away all day. Theft feete are weary. They are exhausted with the tug of work. They are mostly cheerful. With appptites sharpened on the swift I turner’s wheel and the carpenter’s whet? stone they seek the evening meal. The clerics, too, have broken a Way from the Counter and with brain weary of the long line of figures and’the* whims of those Who go a-shopping seek the face of moth-* er or wife or child. The streets are thronged with young out from the great centers of bargain making, 'Let idlers clear the street and give right of way to' the “beswfeated artisans and merchants! They have earned their bread and are now on their way home to get it. The lights in full jet hang over 10,000 evening repasts—the parent? at either end of the table, the children between. Thank 1 God, “who setteth the solitary in families. ’ A few hours later and all the places of amusement, good and bad, are in full tide. . Lovers of art, catalogue in hand, stroll through the galleries and discuss the pictures. The ballroom is resplendent wjth, the rich ,apparel of those who, on either Side of the white, glistening boards, a,wait the signal from the orchestra. Concert halls are lifted, into enchantment with the, warble of one songstress or swept'out on a sea of tumultuous feeling by the blast of brazen , instruments. Drawing, rooms are filled with all gracefulness of apparel, with al) sweetness of sopnd, with al) splendor of manner; mirrors are catching up and multiplying the scene, until, it seems as if in infinite corridors there were garlanded troops advancing and retreating. The.outdoor air rings with laughter and with the moving to and fro of thousands on the great promenades. The dashing span,, adrip with the foam of the long country ride, rushes past as you halt at the curbstone. Mirth, revelry, beauty, fashion; magnificence, mingle in the great metropolitan picture until the thinking man goes home to think riioro seriously, and the praying man to pray more earn* eStly. -A -beautftul and overwhelming thing is the city in the first and second watches bf the night. J Third Match of the NiglK, ;') . , But .the dock, strikes 12,-and the third watch has begun. The thunder .of the city has rolled out of the air. The slightest sounds cut the night with such distetness as to attract your f attention, e tinkling of the bell of the street Car ip the distance-and the baying of the dog; r Ae stamp of-a horse to-the next street. T)ie slamming of a saloon door. Tfie hiccough of the drunkard. The shrieks of the- steam 5, whistle ,'fivfe miles away. Oh, how suggestive, my friends 1 , the .third Watch of the night! There are httoert men passing up and dbwn the street.; Here is a- city missionary who has been carrying a scuttle of coal to .that: popr family in that dark pace. Here is_ an undertaker going up the steps of a building from which there ; comes a bitter cry, which indicates that the destroying angel has smitten the firstborn. Here is a minister of religion who has been giving the sacrament to a dying Christian. Here is a physician-passing along in great haste. / Nearly all the lights have gone out in the dwellings, for ; it is the third watch of the night. That i light in the window is the light of the 1 watcher, for the medicines must be ad- ; ministered, and the fever must be watch--1 ed, and the restless tossing off of the coverlid must be resisted, arid the ice must bo hept on the hot temples, and the per- ; petual prayer must go up from hearts soon to be broken. Oh, the third watch of the night! What a stupendous thought—a whole city at ’ rest! Weary arm preparing for to-mor-row’s toil, Hot brain being cooled off. i Rigid muscles relaxed. Excited nerves • soothed. The white hair of the octoge--1 narian to thin drifts across the pillow, I fresh fall of flakes on snow already fallen. Childhood, with its dimpled hands i thrown out on the pillow, and with every breath taking in a new store of fun ami

frolic. Third watch of the night! God’s ‘ slunjberless eye will look. Let one great wave of <! tefreshing slumber roll over the heart of the great town, submerging care and anxiety and worriment and pain. Let the city' sleep.” - But, my friends, be not deceived. There will be to-night thousands who will not sleep at all. Go! up that dark alley, and be cautious where you tread lest you fall over tiie prostrate form of a drunkard lying on his own doorstep. Look about you, lest you feel the garroter’s hug. Look through the broken window pane and see what you can see. You- say, “Nothing.” . Then listen, ... What is it? “God help us!” No footlights, but tragedy ghastlier and mightier than ißistari or Ed,win Booth ever enacted. No light, ho fire, no bread, no hope. Shivering in the cold, they have had.no food for twen-ty-four hours. You say, “Why don’t they beg?” 1 The/do; brit they get nothing. You pay* “Why don’t they dejivqr themselves over to the almshouse?” Ah, you would not ask that if you ever heard the bitter cry of a man or child when told he must go to the almshpuse! “Qb,” you say, “they are vicious poor, arid therefore they do not deserve our sympathy.” Are they vicious? So much more need they your pity. The Christian poor, God helps them. Through their night there .twinkles the roUndJ merry star of hope and through the broken window they bee the crystals; of heaven, hut the vicious 1 poor, they are more to be pitied. Their jast light has gone out. You excuse your- ' self ; from helping them by Saying they are so bad they brought this trouble on themselves. I reply. Where L give ten prayers for the innocent who are suffer- ' ing I 1 will give twenty for the guilty who i are suffering. ( ’f ** . The Open. Door. ' Pads on through the ‘ alley. “ Open the ' -door. “Oh,” you say,'“it is; locked.” No* (it is not 1 No burglar would be tempted’ to go in there to steal anything. The is never ■ locked. Only a broken chair stands ■ 'against- the door. Shove it back. Go in. 1 Strike a match. Now, look. Beastliness arid rags. See those glaring eyeballs. ' Be careful now what you say. Do not ' utter any insult, do not utter any sus- ’ piclon, if yori value your life. What is 1 that red mark on the wall? It is the 1 mark of a murderer’s hand! Look at ; those two eyes rising up out of the darkness and out from the straw In' the corner, comipg toward you,; and , as they ‘ come near you your light goes out. Strike another match. Ah, tins is a babe,'not 1 like those beautiful children presented to ; baptism. 'This little one never smiled; it • never will smile. A flower flurig on an awfully barren beach. Q Heavenly ’ Shepherd, fold that little one in thy arms! 1 Wrap around you your shawl or your 1 coat tighter, for the cold win£ sweeps ’ through. ’ Strike another match. Ah; is it possible that the scarred and bruised face of ' that young woinan was ever looked into ; by maternal tenderness? Utter no scorn, [t Utter no harsh word. No ray of hope , has dawned on that brow 1 for many a year. No ray of hope ever will flawn on ’ timt brow. But the light has gone out. I Do not strike another light. It would be _ ft mockery to. kindle another light In such : a place as that. Pass out and pass down the street. Our cities are full of such , homes, and the worst time the third watch of the night. ’ ( ' Do you know It'is in this third watch Os thq night that criminals do their worst work ? It is the criminals’ watch. At II half past 8 o’clock yOu will find them in ’ the drinking saloon, but toward 12 o’clock [. they go to their garrets, they get out their ' tools,! then they start on the street *’ Watching on either side for the police, 1 they gO to their work of darkness. This is a burglar, and the false key will soon ’ touch the store lock. This is an incen- ! diary, and before morning there will be a J light on the sky and a cry “Fire, fire!” ’ This is an assassin, and to-morrow mom- ‘ ing there will be a dead bOdy in one of ’ 1 the Vacant lots. During - the daytime ‘ I these villains in our cities lounge about, ' some flsleep and some awake; but when the third watch of the night arrives their ’ eye is keen, their brain cool, their arm • strong, their foot fleet to fly or pursue, ' they are ready, of these poor ’ creatures were brought rip that way. They were bom in a thieves’ garret; f fheir childish toy was a burglar’s dark ’ ‘ lantern. The first thihg they remember ‘ was their mother bandaging the brow of ’ their father, struck by the police club. 1 They began by robbing boys’ pockets, and now .they have come to dig the underground passage tb the cellar of-the bank I and are- preparing to blast the gold vault » Jiust so' long as there are neglected chil- • .dren of the street just so long we will ■‘ have these desperadoes. . Hour of Great'Temptation. r -in the third watch of the night gam- > Kling does its worst work. What though ■ the hours be slipping away and! though - the wife be waiting in the cheerless ’ -home? Stir up the fire. Bring on more - drinks. - Put on, more stakes.; That coml merclal house that only a little while ago put out l a sign of copartnership will this 1 winter be wrecked on a gambler’s table. - There Vvili be mahy a money till that wfll > spring a leak, /In the third watch of the t .night pass down the streets Os these cities > and you will hear the click of the dice i and the sharp, keen stroke of the balls t' on the billiard table. At these places - merchant princes distnqunt am) legislaJ tors, tired of-making laws, take a respite 5 in breaking them. All classes of people i are robbed by this crime—the importer of s 1 foreign silks and the dealer to Chatham r street pocket handkerchiefs. The clerks t of th© store take h hand after the shutb ters are put up, and the officers of the - court while awav their time while the c- jury is out. In Baden-Baden, when that city was t the greatest of all gambling places on v earth, it was no unusual thing the next s morning, to the woods around about the city, to find the suspended bodies of suit cides. Whatever be the splendor of surt roundings, there is no excuse for this ■- crime. The thunders of eternal destruc- !• tion roll in the deep rumble of that gama bling tenpin alley, and as men come out h to join the long procession of sin all the r , drums of death beat the dead march of a I- thousand souls. s In one year in New York City there y Were eeven million dollars sacrificed at d the gaming table. Perhaps some of your

ftlto& h t flv< been’stoftten of th’s sto. Perhaps sonie of you have been smftteh' 1 by it. Perhaps there may be a stranger here from some of the hotels. Lobk out for those agents df iniqu*tf tvho tarry about the hotels and ask you, “Would . you likq tp see the city?” “Yes.” “Have , you ever seen that splendid, building up ’ town?” “No.” Then the villain will undertake to show you what he calls the “lions” and the “elephafitri,” arid after a yoring man through morbid curiosity or ? through badness of soul has seen the - “lions” and the “elephants” he will be f on enchanted ground. Look out for these men who move around the hotels with sleek hats —always sleek hats—and patronizing air and unaccountable interest about your welfare and entertainment. You are a fool if ypp cannot see through it. They want your money. z ' « tnH When Drunkenness Mort Prevails. In the third watch of the night also drunkenness does its worst. The drinking will be respeerable at 8 o’clock in the evening, a little flushed at 9, talkative and garrulous at 10. at, H biasphemous, at 12 the hat falls off, at 1 the man falls to the floor atoning fOri more drink. Stfewn through t)ie drinking sa- , loons of the city, fathers, husbands, sons 1 as good as you are’by nature, perhaps - better. In the high ciroles of society it is hushed up. A merchant prince, if he gets noisy and uncontrollable, is taken by 1 h’s fellow revplers, who tty to get fiim to bed or take him home, where he falls flat to ‘ the entry; Do not wake Up the children. They have had disgrace enougto Do not let them know it. Hush it up. But soihetimes it cannot be hushed up when the rum touches the brain and the man.; becomes thoroughly frenzied. Such a one came home, having been absent for some time, and during his absence his wife died, and she )ay in {he next room prepared for the obsequies, and he went to and dragged her by the Ibcks and shook her out of the shroud and pitched her , out Os the window. Oh, When rrim ' touches the brain you cannot hush,it up! ; My friends, you see all around about you the need that something radical be done. You do not see the worst. In the midnight meetings Jn London a great multitude have been saved. We want a few hundred Christian then and womfen to ' come down from the highest circles of, sq- ■. ciety to toil amid these wandering anil destitute ones and kindle rip a light to the dark alley, even the gladness of heaven. Do not go wrapped in your fine furs and from yoUr well filled tables with thd idea, that pious tall? is going to stop the gnaw- , tog of an empty stomach or to warm stockingless feet; Take bread; take* rrilment, take medicine, as well as. take prayer. There is a great deal of common sense in what the poor woman said to the city missionary when h« was teUtog her how she ought to love God and serve him. “Oh,” she sflld, “if you were as poor and cold as I am and as hungry you could ; think of nothing else.” A great deal of what is called Christian work goes for nothing for the simple reason that it was not practical, as after the battle of Antietam a man got out of an ambulance with a bag of tracts, and he went distributing the tracts, and George Stuart, ohe of the beit Christirin men to this country, said to him: “What | are you distributing tracts for now? There are .three thousand men -bleeding to death. Bind up their wounds and then distribute the tracts.” We want more common sense in Christian work,' taking the bread ,of tips life to one hand and the bread of the next- life in the other hand. No such inapt work as that done by the Christian.man who dnrtoqi our Civil War Went to a hospital wttir 17 tracts and, coming to the bed of « man whose legs had been amputated, gave him a tract on the sin of dancing! I rejoice before God 'that never are sympathetic words uttered, never. a prayer offered, never a Christian almsgiving indulged in, but it is blessed. lam not here to thrustyou back with one hard word. Takfe the bandage froto your bruisdd soul and put on it the soothing salve of Christ’s-goe-pel and of God’s compassion, I. tell you there is more deMght to heaven over one man that gets reformed by the grace of God than over ninety and nine tfiflt never got off the track. . Attacking: the Weak Point, I could give you the history in a minute of one of the best friends I ever had. Outside of my own family I never had a better friend. He welcomed me to my home at the. west. He was of 'splendid personal appearance, but he had an ardor? of soul and a warmth of affection that made me love him like a brother. I saw men coming out of the saloons and gambling hells, and they surrounded my friend, and they took him at the weak point—his. social nature—and I saw him going'down, and I Jiad a fair talk vqith him, for I never yet saw a man you could not talk with on the subject of his. habits if you talked with hdm to the right way. I said to him, “Why don’t you give up your bad habits -and become fl Christian?” I remember now just bow he looked, leaning over his counter, as he replied: “I wish,. I could. Oh, sir, I should like to be a Christian, but I have gone so far astray I can’t getr backs? So the time went on. After ewhße-the day of sickness came. I was summoped to his sickbed. I hastened. It took *brit a ‘ few moments to get there. I was Surprised as I went to. I,saw him.to his . ordinary dress, fully dressed, lying on top of the bed. I gave him my hand, and he seized it convulsively and said: “Oh, hoW glad I am to see you! Bit down there.” I sat down, and he said: “Mr. Talmage, just where you sit’ bow my mother sat last* night. She has been dead twenty years, Now, I don’t want! you to think I am out of my mind or that I am superstitions! but, ’sir, she sat there last night, «nd she said, Roswell,. I wish you would do better—l wish you would do better.’ I said: ’Mother, I wish I could do better; I try to do better, but I can’t. Mother, you used to help me. Why can’t you help me now? And. sir, I got out of bed, for it wa»At reality, and I went to her and threw .my arms. 1 around her neck, arid I said,’ ‘Mother, I will do better, but you must help, I can’t do this alone.’ ” 1 knelt anfl prayed. That night his soul went to the Lord who made it . » . . ■ . ■ - , 1 Canada and Mexico are the only foreign countries to which periodicals from publishers for regular subscribers ; (second-class matter in domestic mails) L may be sent at the bulk or pound rate of postage. » — t Shipwrights tn Belfast make $8.14 a r Week. _