Daily Greencastle Banner and Times, Greencastle, Putnam County, 28 August 1897 — Page 3
THE DAILY BANNER TIMES, GREENCASTLE, INDIANA.
"BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER’S BURDENS."
If *au make the brighter; If Oan make one'h.-art the lighter; r.»l help ua apeak that little word And tike our bit of singing Au.l drop it in some lonely valo To set the echoes ringing.
If any little love of ours May make a life the sweeter; If any little care of ours May make another’s fleeter; If any little help may ease The burden of another; God give us love and care and strength To help along each other.
THEATRICAL TOPICS.
"■* r-rs
V. The * Strike * of * Tillie * Slater. Hi
V*
ILLIE SLATEB often said she was working her fingers to the bone, but nobody seemed
to care.
Tillie’s sister Alice was the “f a shionab le” dressmaker i n
“What’s the matter?” repeated
Alice. “Where’s Hiram?”
“He*s lost, or stolen or something,”
said Tillie. “I had him on a bench | SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF THE close to the lake, and Ijust weutdown i PLAYERFOLK. to the edge of the water for a few I
minutes, and when 1 went back he
was gone. O-o-oh!”
“Somebody’s stolen him,” said
Geoffrey.
an awful change in her. She never does anything unless I ask her to, and she seems to hate little Hiram. I’m sure I don’t know what I’m going to do about it," and the 19-year-old bread-winner sighed. ‘Don’t worry, Alice,” said patient Geoffrey. “Don’t pay any attention to her and her bad humor will wear off after awhile. Anybody’d have to love this child. It's contrary to human nature to hold unkind feelings toward
him.”
But Tillie’s bad humor did not wear off. The strike was continued throughout April and May, and when vacation
pulled out hasting | begay her dislike for the little boy who threads, helped to ^ad, by common consent, been conoodk the meals, gignad to her cere, was at {ever heat.
|ra lied dishes, swept floors and read ’pillie herself often wondered how she
j news to her brother Geoffrey. treat him so badly.
['i, re had been a time when the • “Hiram Stewart, Hirara Stewart, 1
hate you,” she said one day in a low, tense voice that fairly frightened her
Koseberry row, and Tillie was her assistant. She cut buttonholes, sewed straight seams on the m ach i n e,
had been a time when the jl itcr girls had looked upon Geof-
as a helper and a protector the struggle with poverty, which w i len s ) le realized what a terrible state
- the oiii. • ! ir parents had ’ft them. But that was before the
jeident on the new schoolhouse, here he was working. After that his guts were limp and lifeless, his back as bent and his eyes were bad, and ie poor boy, with the hope and [treiigth of his seventeen years all lighted, became nothing but a buren to his faithful sisters. There were a good many times when illie worked herself into the belief nit she was a martyr. Then she leeretly rebelled against the hardness her lot; but, with the exception of ommentiug on the condition of her nger tips, she considerately refrained ■om complaining in Alice’s presence, lut when they took the baby to raise le felt that she was justified in open
jehelliou.
“It’s a downright shame,” she cried m, bitterly, when Alice brought the ittle fellow home with her from the iniera! and announced her intention f keeping him. “f declare, 1 won't iut up with it. Just as if we haven’t liul a hard enough time already withpt this happening. It’s been uothjg but work, work, work, all my life, rve never had the time nor the money go to places and do things like ler girls. I’ve never said anything ml how I felt, for I supposed you an Geoffrey were suffering just as m eh as I did. But when it conies to addling ourselves with other people's children, I won’t stand it.” I “But he's our own nephew,” per•isted Alice, gently. “Our own sis♦i r's child. Just before Clara went Kih<' called me in and asked me to take :^»im and bring him up, and I’ve got to it. Remember, he is an orphan ns ^Bell as ourselves, Tillie. If we don’t i” am > for him, who will?” [ ' I don't know,” said Tillie, stiffly. BP 1 ) suppose yon can put him in an asyor an institution. That is where other babies go when their fathers and Blethers die, and he’s no better than rest of them. There’s one thing •(re, we can’t have him. One more Houth to feed and one more body to cli'the means a good deal to poor folks til i us. And we need so many things, flr v ’ t° 0- Besides, who’s going to ^^Biecan'<it' him? A two-year-old baby ffipn't very well shift for himself.”
| “Yes, I know.” returned Alice. “I ttunight you could take him out for an ^Bnng sometimes and look after him ■ little nights and mornings. Geofli i and 1 can manage to get along Hme way during the day. Then vaBtion will soon be here and you will
lots of time to give him.”
BTake care of him nights and mornBgs and haul him around during va|ti"ii! Yes, indeed, I si"' myself doit. I’ll strike, that’s what I'll do, ice Slater. I won’t turn my hand ■hi i' to help about one solitary thing. spB ' ou’re going to burden yourself HHtli troublesome babies you’ll have to along the best way you can. 1
sisiu’t help."
H.\iice sighed and riinnneili'i'd to pure potatoes for supper. Tillie took ^■k tier Latin reader and tried to study, ^■t somehow she could not concen^■te her thoughts on the lesson, ^^fti 'i'igh the iiiieii door she could see baby sitting by the sewing-room H 'low in tiie midst of some flowering Pints that Tillie had carefully nursed thr mghout the winter. He was abouflw child, and he looked so sweet and rif Ity in his pink dress and white rufapron that even Tillie’s hardened ^ii't was touched, and the thought s borne in on her mind as she tched him that of all the flowers oiiiing there the daintiest and fair-
was her little nephew.
‘Why don’t you kiss the baby, ir?” said Alice, as she began to set i table. “Don’t act that way. Poor le thing, he has been so lonesome Sterday and to-day without his ther. Clara always spoiled him, I ess. He’ll get over it noon, but it’s jful now to see how his heart is
jeved for her.”
^i-lioe lifted a corner of her apron to eyes, but Tillie turned hf v atteuto the Latin l eu 1 cr o11co more and Bu-ed to welcome the addition to family. She did not refer to the
^■ject again, but her actions gave | anxious.
of mind such a tone must express. She had taken him out to the park that afternoon for an airing in compliance with Alice's request. She placed him in one corner of a wooden bench and knelt before him that she might look him squarely in the face when telling him what she thought of him. Even in the midst of her anger Tillie involuntarily pronounced him the prettiest baby in the whole world, with his soft brown hair, long dark lashes and beautifully molded face,but the thought did not cause her to relent. “Do you know what you have done to me, Hiram Stewart?” she went on. “You’ve made me work my fingers to the bone.” Tillie could not forbear using her favorite expression, in spite of the fact that she had been doing comparatively little since his coming, “You keep me from having any fun. I can’t go visiting with the girls, but have to lug you around every bright day instead.” Great tears were coursing down the baby’s cheeks, and his breast heaved with the storm of sobs that was about to break. Tillie saw his grief, but she went on mercilessly. “I had completed plans for having a little pleasure this summer for the first time in my life, and you had to come in and knock them all in the head. Hiram Stewart, you’re the pest of my existence. I’m not going to put up with you any longer. I’m—going —to—lose—you. ” It seems as though the child understood the import of the words, for he set up a cry that,echoed through that part of the park ami attracted the attention of everybody who chanced to be lounging near there. “Oh, dear I Oh, dear!” lamented Tillie. “I’ve done it now. I ought to have known better than to get him scared. I must try to quiet him somehow. There, there, baby,” and she assumed a coaxing tone, “don’t cry. Tillie didn't mean it. Come on, darling, and go to sleep, Tillie’ll sing for
you.”
She took him in her arms and sat down in his corner of the bench. Then, swaying herself gently backward and forward, she murmured a lullaby with which her own heart had often been soothed when heavy with infantile woes. The afternoon sun was sinking low, and its last rays fell athwart the fair face nestled against her shoulder, when Tillie censed singing and assured herself that the baby was sound asleep. One little hand was closed over the end of the lace scarf at her throat, but she deftly loosed his grasp, and with a dexterity born of a settled determination she slipped him from her arms to the bench. Then she stood up and looked round. That corner of the park was momentarily deserted. The only persons in sight were three boys in a boat, quite a distance out on the lake, and a fisherman,who was just returning from the end of the pier. She watched the fisherman until he struck into a pathway leading south, then turned to the baby once more. One tiny hand was doubled up under his head and the other nestled beneath his chin. There were tear stains on his cheeks, and even in his sleep his breathing was convulsed now and then, as though dreaming of the sorrow he had just borne. Tillie gave one more quick, frightened glance at the child on the bench, then turned and ran, with the swiftness of a young gazelle, through a deeply shaded path that branched off from the wide carriageway. Twilight had already settled down in the treelined walk, and there was no one to watch her flight. She had almost reached the street, where the cable cars were running two and fro, before any one crossed her path. Then she slacked her speed and walked out into the wide drive with apparent uncon-
cern.
The clock in the tower of the railroad depot at the head of Koseberry row was striking seven when Tillie walked into the kitchen —alone. Supper had been standing for half an hour, and Alice already had grown nervous and
Alice was weeping piteously. “Did you speak to a policeman, Tillie?” she asked. “X-n-o,” faltered Tillie. “I didn’t think about it.” Within an hour’s time a description of the lost child had been sent to every police station in town. That was a proceeding Tillie had not counted on, and she wondered what the outcome would be. It practically resulted in nothing, for in spite of the assurances of the officer who patroled Koseberry row that Hiram would be restored by morning, the next day dawned without bringing any news of the pretty boy. Tillie passed a miserable night. She begged to be allowed to sit up with Alice and the neighbors who had come in, but they bade her go to bed. “It isn’t your fault, child,” they said, kindly. “Nobody blames you. You look like you’d been sick for a week, Go to bed and try to rest a lit.
tie.”
Their tender solicitude increased her feeling of guilt. Along toward morning she fell asleep, but she was tormented by such awful dreams that she was glad when they told her it was
time to get up.
A week passed, and in spite of the efforts of the police the Slater baby was still missing. Tillie had accomplished her object. She had rid herself of her troublesome little relative, but somehow his absence did not bring the sense of freedom she had expected. The strike had been called off, and she again helped Alice of her own accord. But there wasn’t much to be done. Sewing was slack just then, and all the duties pertaining to the baby were no longer needed. She had plenty of time to go visiting with the girls, but she had no inclination to improve her opportunity, and every
July (liven Way to the introduction of Ntage Novelties Some Stars of I.ant Season—“Henry Kninond,” anil “The
Little MinUter,” Dramatized.
ter of Deyo, the dancer. Is herself a graceful dancer and was a member of the “Parlor Match" company the past season. Her beauty is of an exceedingly fair and spirltuelle type, and her sweet face suggests an opening (lower.
t-lFE IN A CONVICT COLONY.
Delight-
HE tnc^Uh of July is about the dullest in the whole year so far as amusements are concerned, says a writer in Peterson's Magazine. Very few
there are few
theaters are so con-
structed that they 1 promptly failed, and when it was proare habitable in posed that they produce “A Social hot weather, and Highwayman," they could see nothing entertainments suifi- ! good in the latter. E. M. Holland in-
Island of New ('alcdonia Is
ful riace.
’'Th* island of New Caledonia, where I hue lived for the past 10 years. Is a French penal colony," said C. G. Freeman, an English gentleman, to a Washington Post reporter. “I went there for my health, expecting to stay only a short time, but went Into the business ef raining coffee, for which that country is well adapted, and finally concluded to stay permanently. New Caledonia is 1,200 miles east of Australia, and, although within the tropics, has a delightful climate for 10 months in the year. During January and February the weather Is so excessively hot that one can not live In comfort. It is 40 miles wide by 400 long. There
a most stupid comedy which are between 5,000 and 6,000 convicts on
It has often been said thn It is easier to write a play than to get It produced, and there is a groat deal of truth in this statement. Managers may be good judges of plays—though sometimes they are decidedly not—but actors are proverbially blind to the merits or defects of a play or their suitability for a part. Richard Mansfield is a firm believer in his impersonation of Richard III, but the public will none of it; E. M. and Joseph Holland were delighted with "A Man with
a Past,
OUR BUDGET OF HUMOR.
ciently enthralling to hold an audience Indoors for three hours on a warm night. The roof gardens have formerly done well in summer time, but last year was a disastrous one for them on account of the rain, which often held a continuous performance of Us own far several nights in succession. It does not take long to see the few productions which can brave the hot weather, and after that moonlight sails or bicycle rides or tete-a-tetes in the parks or along the river appeal with much force to pleasure seekers. A few ‘'floating theaters" have been fitted up and will make nightly excursions, weather permitting, around and about New York this summer. Of course the air is very cool and delightful, but these theaters have one disadvantage the audience cannot escape if it wants to. and sometimes the would-be comedians and vocalists almost drive one to jumping overboard. The souvenir craze has so grown on some of our managers that we should not be surprised one of these days to receive an excursion trip to Europe or a new hat at some souvenir performance. Like nearly all fads, It started
sisted that he would be lost as a valet, ' and Joseph was not at all anxious to | appear as a thief. When the nroduc- ' lion was made, however, each scored a great personal hit, and the play was one of the successes of the season. A. M. Palmer had that delightful pastoral, “Alabama,” tucked away in a pigeon hole for three years, and only produced it in an emergency, to fill an empty week, or something of that sort. As everybody knows, the play was a wonderful success and brought both fame and money to everyone connected with It. "The District Attorney” was a remarkably strong drama which would have made the reputation and fortune of any manager who produced it at the right time, but not one had the courage owing to existing political conditions. Russ Whytal produced “For Fair Virginia” himself in the summer season because he could not find a manager to take It. The play was so successful that he has played it for three years, twice postponing other productions to continue it. It was practically the same with "At Piney Ridge.” "Under the Polar Star,” and "The Man From Mexico,” which have all been : successes.
itive proof that the strike was on. ^LTillie’s still sulking,’’ Alios said ^Jieufl'rey one morning, after her sishad gone to school without heedthe boy who had held out his bby hands and asked, in his baby
“Where’s Hiram?” she asked, when she perceived that Tillie did not have
the baby.
“O-o-oh,” moaned Tillie over and over again. Her grief was not feigned, for her alarm had by that time become
diy she looked longingly at the high- mildly, then developed into a disease, chair which stood empty among the And still later became a wild craze,
roses and geraniums and carnations, and wondered what had become of him. Of afternoons she went to the park and sat on the bench where she had left him in the chill of the coming night. The picture of the baby as he lay there was constantly before her, and she cried out that her heart was breaking. It was her first great siu, and the punishment was terrible. On the eighth day after “losing” the baby Tillie walked dejectedly through the park toward the fateful spot. Her, head was bent, and she did not raise her eyes from the ground till near the familiar bench. Then she stopped short with a cry of alarm and rubbed her eyes to make sure she was awake. Yes, she was right; she had lost her mind indeed, for there on that self-same bench, dressed in the same pink frock, and lying in the same attitude, in the same corner, was
the despised baby.
Her heart gave a mighty hound as though it would jump clear out of her
mouth.
“He's dead, and that’s his ghost," she cried, faintly; “hut I’m going to look at his pretty face once more, anyway.” A moment later she stood beside him, and in another instant Hiram Stewart, in flesh and blood, not iu spirit, was clasped iu her strong young arms. “My darling, darling baby,” she sobbed. “I love you; indeed I do.” There was a note pinned to his dress. It was addressed to her. She opened it and read as follows: “On the afternoon of Jane 25 an old man who was resting in the shadow of a clump of bushes in Lincoln park heard a little girl saying some very cruel things to a baby. Among other things she threatened to ‘lose’ him. The old man was sorely grieved at that, and after the little girl had run away he went over and sat on the bench beside the sleeping hoy. It was dark when the baby awoke and sat up and looked around him. He was chilled and hungry, and frightened at the lonesome stillness, and if the little girl could have heard his pitiful crying she would have vowed never to ‘lose’ him again, but to love him
dearly.
“The old man took him home. He soon learned, through the newspapers, to whom the child belonged. He made a trip to Koseberry row and told the little girl’s brother and sister a few things, and they decided it would be well to bring the little girl to her senses. Tim old man has given the child the best of care. He would like to keep him always, but there are others who have a better claim. He is yours heuceforward.” There was no name signed to tire letter. Tillie looked all around for the old man, who, she thought, must be near, but he had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come the day she “lost” the baby. Tillie clasped Hiram’s chubby arms round her neck and pressed him close to her heart. Hhe went straight to Koseberry row. “I’ve found him, Alice,” she said, simply. “You know all about it. I’m sorry. The strike is over, Alice, and if you don’t let me work my fingers to the hone now, I’ll never forgive you. ”—Chicago Record.
James T. Powers, or Jimmy, as he it
the island, and perhaps an equal number of tlcket-of-leave men—that Is, men who have served out their terms of Imprisonment, but who are forbidden to leave, and have to report to the authorities twice a year. They are a miserable, spiritless lot, these ttoket-of-leave fellows, who work just enough to keep from starvation, and whose highest ambition is to get money enough for a debauch. The convicts are treated very humanely by the French officials and I doubt if there is a penal settlement in the world where the men have the same care and consideration shown them. The coffee plantations are worked largely by negroes who come from the New Hebrides under contract to stay two or three years, the local lalior being very unreliable. The pay of the laborers is $2 per month and rations, rice being the principal article of food. This cheapness of labor is the explanation of the profit in cultivating coffee. If we had to pay the wages current in the Fnited States there would be no money in Its production. We export to France and are allowed a rebate of one-half of tho entry duties, which is a considerable bonus. There are a few Englishmen in New Caledonia, but no Americans, I believe, outside of the consul. The French are very jealous of foreigners and discourage all outsiders from com-
I Ing there.”
AUCHTER-PROVOKINC STORIES FOR, LOVERS OF FUN.
lliii stnir—The VU-rrevnlUtiE—The llelghk of Her Ambition—llefore the ll*trg»tn Snle—The Main 1'olnt—Hie Laftt Report—11,>i,net to Hide, Ktc., Etc. Press me closer, ail my own; Warms my heart for thee alone, Every nerve responsive thrills, Each caress my being fllls. Uest and peace iu vain I crave, In ecstasy I live, thy slave. Dower'd with hope, with promise blest. Thou dost reign upon my breast. Close* still, for I am thine, Burns my tieart, for thou art mine. Thou the message, I the wire— I the furuaee, thou the fire— " Q I the servant, thou the master— ' Boaring, red-hot mustard plaster. —Green Bay Advocate.
The Height of Her Ambition. Bertha—“What is tho height oi your ambition, dear?” Marie (blushing)—“Oh, somethinp’ between five and a half and six feet." —Loudon Fun. Th«> Main Point. Elocutionist (begining to recite Long fellow’s famous poem).—“Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the, midnight ride of Paul Revere.” Impatient Auditor—“What make oB vheel did lie use?”—Puck.
ON HER KNEES.
Onre
THE HAWTHORNE SISTERS.
The most sensible and enjoyable sou- ! best known, is doing the finest work venir of any good play is a little bro- j of his career in "The Circus Girl," the chore tastefully bound, containing < entertaining musical comedy at Daly's.
some scenes from the drama, portraits of the principal players, together with tho cast and story of the play. Thus the charm of the play is called to mind whenever one glances at the book, and every one will keep such a souvenir. The little brass and bronze statuettes of characters in the play, or scenes molded in this fashion, were the next stop, but these are not so satisfactory. The workmanship must be of the crudest kind and tho likenesses of the players unsuited, and this is often a peculiarity of actors. For instance, the great ambition of that delightful comedian, Nat Goodwin, is to play Richard III. Imagine the wiry, fiery, comical Nat-—though he can be pathetic at times—limping around In Richard's ermine and offering his kingdom for a horse! Yet in his own line there is no one else like him; his comedy is unrivaled, and his pathos brings tears straight from the heart. His impersonation of the sheriff in “In Mizzoura” is one of the finest pieces of acting iver seen on our stage, while in “A
to be taken, too. “There’s been j genuine iu realization of her ofteuse.
A Ilemarkable Cat. Professor Hill, of Princeton University, once owned a very remarkable cat. It had but two legs, having been born that way. But in spite of this deformity it was a most engagiug pet and walked glibly upon its two fore feet and frisked about ns lively as cats blessed with four legs. When she died her skeleton was mounted and now reposes in a glass case iu the university museum.
MISS GRACE SCOTT.
Gilded Fool” and other comedies he is delightful. This past season Mr. GoodWin has made a tour of Australia, where he was highly successful. His chief play Just now is “An American Citizen,” by Madeline Lucette Ryley. Among the portraits which we present are those of the Hawthorne Sisters and Grace Scott, who have been prominent the past season on account of their cleverness and good looks. The Hawthorne sisters, in most attractive Japanese gowns, have sung and danced at Koster & Dial’s in a high-class specialty, their greatest success being in the quaint and catchy song “The WllIdw Pattern Plate.” Grace Scott, a sis-
HIs impersonation of the American bartender with pugilistic aspirations is | clean, bright, and thoroughly amusing. ! Jimmy Powers’ facial expression, which is really wonderful, has always been i his strong point; he can tell a whole j story by the pucker of his lips, or the i droop of an eyebrow. The "business” | which he introduces in his new role is remarkably clever, and the part is ( worth a dozen of those farce comedies such as “A Straight Tip,” “A Mad Bargain,” etc., in which he used to star. ;
Year a California Woman Walks
a Quarter of a Mile.
Walking on bared and bended knees | for a quarter of a mile along a dusty ' and stony road may seem a queer way I to show one's appreciation of the gifts of God, but that is the way in which I Mrs. Louisa Williams of San Leandro, Cal., annually pays a debt of gratitude to her maker. She recently accomplished the feat for the sixteentli time. Mrs. Williams is the wife of J. P. Williams, who owns a large fruit farm near San Leandro. Seventeen years ago her husband lost his sight. Eminent oculists examined his eyes and all agreed that he would never see again. Then the wife turned to God. She prayed on her bended knees that He restore her husband to sight. She vowed that if her prayer was granted she would walk on her bared knees from her home to the church in the annual procession of the holy ghost, that she would feed the poor and care for the distressed. Whether or not her prayers were heard and answered or whether or not vision returned to the blinded eyes through some natural cause, the unusual happened. The eyesight of Williams was restored within a few weeks afterward, and today the fruiterer sees as well as any man. Mrs. Williams, her husband, her relatives and all her neighbors believe that her prayers and the performance of the vow caused the miracle to be done. In that belief she has taken iier painful journey each year to the church and will doubtless continue to take it while the power to travel remains. It took her over an hour to complete the journey, the people along the route standing prayerfully by as she slowly passed along. Once in the church the woman, almost overcome from exhaustion, prayed for the continued favor of her
Creator.
Clear Keaiioninm’*
He—“How do you know your fathei will give his consent?” She—“He has often said that you; are the last man in our set to whom h« would give me, and he has sent all thu others about their business as they
asked for me.”
lie Fore the Bargain Sale. New Salesman—“I understand that no purchaser is to have more than ten yards. But suppose a lady comes back! after one purchase shall I refuse to sell her any more?” Floor Walker—“If you're tired of your position.”—Puck.
The All-Prevailing.
Kind-hearted Old Lady—“When you finally reached the barren island, 400 leagues away from the beaten courses of ships, what was the first thing that met your eye?” Recently Shipwrecked Tar—“ ‘Bicycles Sold Here,’ mum.’ ”
A Great Inventor.
“Yon wouldn’t take that man for i great inventor, would you?"
“No. Is he?”
“He is. He invented an excuse fo* being out with the boys that satisfied
his wife, and he’s been married seven teen years!”—Cleveland Plain Dealer.! At the Athletic Game*. She—“What a wonderful jumper that man is!—but why do they keep ringing the big gong while he is mak-
ing his jumps?”
He—“That’s Jerolamon—he’s from Brooklyn, and he can’t do his best unless he imagines he is getting out of the way of a trolley car.”
Pretty Stupid. A witty southern woman, widow of a famous southern statesman, was talking one day about the dullness of the social season in Washington, and by way of pointing her remarks, quoted the innocent saying of another lady. The second lady was calling at the southern widow s house, and spoke of an afternoon reception at which she had shortly before been present. There was nothing very interesting about it, she thought. Her hostess politely agreed with her that such functions were apt to be a little formal and stupid. “Yes,” said the caller, “they are always so tame! It is just like this everywhere one goes.” She spoke so innocently that the southern lady felt nothing but amusement. How the speaker herself felt, when she realized what she had said, must be left to the imagination of the
reader.
His Last Kesort. “How did Slims happen to marry his landlady, professor?” “I am not conversant with all tha facts, but from what I have gathered incidentally I am under au impression —I might say conviction—that a board bill had some direct bearing upon thu unexpected union.”—Detroit Free Press. It* Duration. Hennypeck (drearily)—“I fancy my wife’s mother intends to make her stay with us a Kathleen Mavourneen visit." Askins—“What do you mean by that?” Hennypeck—“Oh, “it may be fop years and it may be forever,” you know."—New York Journal.
Two popular novels which have lately been dramatized are Thackeray's “Henry Esmond" and J. M. Barrie's “The Little Minister.” The latter has been on the veige of production many times, both In this country and in England, but it Is quite likely that it will be seen in London before fall, and later, if it is a success, we will have it over here. Richard Mansfield owns a dramatization of “Henry Esmond,” but that is no sign he will produce it or he seen in it, for he had “A Social Highwayman” on hand for a long time, intending to create the part of Hanby, the valet, and then disposed of the Sothern also has a stage version of "Henry Esmond” in which he may appear next season. The first play of Mr. Sothern’s New York engagement in September, however, will be a new comedy entitled “Change Alley,” by Louis N. Parker, so-author of 'Rosemary.” it is to be hoped that this popular rctor will have a congenial part in a romantic drama too, for, charming as he is in modern comedy, it is in parts and plays calling for the heroism, chivalry and dash of romance
that he is at his best.
When Herbert Kelcey and Eflie Shannon begin their joint starring tour in September at Wallack's, supported by W. J. LeMoyne, it will seem like a bit out of the Lyceum past, when these three players used to appear together in Dan Frohman s little playhouse.
Miss Shannon’s acting has greatly im- ] , proved since those days, i. e., she has i Much Alike, developed from an ingenue into a | Britisher—But your club waiters and leading woman, ^nd Mr. Keicey is the clubmen themselves wear the same vastly more entertaining since he evening costume. How can you tell dropped the juvenile sir he was obliged them apart? New Yorker—Oh, tho to assume for so long. Mr. LeMoyne | waiters are habitually sober, and they has always been a most admirable never hit you for ten. That's the only ccmedian. The play in which they will ; way I can tell,
appear is from the clever pen of Made- |
.....Cl Two of a Kind, leine Lucette Ryley. He—I love you madly. Will you
marry me? She—But I am already
Education polishes good dispositions | marrie< j. He—So am I.
, and corrects bad ones.
Bound to “My child, do you think he has the force and perseverance to raise himself to your level?” “I am sure he has, mamma. Why, have you forgotten the time the elevator was broken, how he climbed tha whole eight stories?” Love laughs not alone at locksmiths; especially in our throbbing civilization there are others.—Detroit Journal.
Explained. “See here, young man, I’ll have to take yon in. Your lantern's out.” “Hold on, officer, I’ll explain. You see I bought one of these ^2-bicycle suits this afternoon, and it burst on me ten miles from home. Now, I'm trying to get back as quietly as I can iu the dark. You see the necessity ol it?” “That’s all right—go ahead.”— Cleveland Plain Dealer.
rtdlzlnu; Waste Energy.
Mrs. Crabshaw—Won't you walk up and down with the baby? Crabshaw— Are you really heartless enough to ask me to do such a thing when my tooth is aching like thunder? Mrs. Crabshaw —I thought you wouldn’t mind, my dear. You know you never keep still when you have the toothache.
A ScriotiB Cusp. Mrs. Briske—“Johnny, did the doctor call while I was out?” Little Johnny (stopping his play)—> “Yes’m. He felt my pulse an’ looked at my longue, and shook his head and said it was a very serious case, and he left this prescription and said he’d call again before night.” Mrs. Briske—“Gracious me! It wasn’t you I sent him to see; it was .he baby.”—The Yellow Kid. The Safest lee Water. An old physician considers this the only safe ice water to be used during the siummer mouths; “Procure some nice looking bottles which will hold about a quart, andj till them with water which has beei^ running for some time. Water which has run through a filter attached to a faucet is preferable. Then cork them tightly and place them directly on tha ice for some hours before you need touse them, turn them two or threoj times, so that they will become uni-j formly cold, and you will find that you; can drink more of this water with lead after discomforts than you can tha water which has been cooled by being directly iced.”—New York Herald.