Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 November 1883 — Page 6

BY THK WASHES. BT HERBERT E. CLARKE. We stood for a little together. The water kissing onr feet; Around ns glowed glad bright weather; The morning and yon were sweet. I thought, as yon stood there dreaming, ’Twaa you that lighted the day; And the water, glancing and gleaming And hurrying ever away. Vocal with brief light laughter. As past.you it fled to the sea. Seemed to linger a little, apd after I think it agreed with me. Flushed with the wind and glowing. Silent yon stood awhile, Hair in the sunlight blowing, Smiling a dreamy smile. The water-sang, “Lore is a treasure," “A treasure, my soul replied; "And the pain of it, and the pleasure. Sweeter than all beside." And I saw the wavelets glitter, Glad but to kiss your feet; And toe -wind sang. “Life may be bitter, But loving can make it sweet." And laughed and loitered around you. Surely finding you fair 1 ; And the merry sun kissed and crowned you Queen of the morning there. Everything fair seemed to love you. Seemed proud at your feet to fall; And the lark, singing high above you. Sang you were the fairest of all. And scarcely a word was spoken. But our souls to each other spoke. Till the dreamy spell was broken. And we started and smiled and woke. And so in the glorious weather, In the morning blithe and gay. Happy in being together. Happily wandered away. * —Herbert E. Clarke, in Harper’s Magazine.

A NIGHT'S BATTLE.

BY LILY M. CURRY.

Without, the wind, sighing softly, lingered in the iron lattice and at intervals brushed the windows with a faint spray of rain. Within, the shadows deepened —deepened from the corners, gradually closing up over all the central barrenness of the room and shielding the woman who had thrown herself despairingly across the bed. She lay very quietly in the darkness; but it was the quiet of bodily exhaustion. She could still think, and her thoughts were a passionate multitude. A month before, she had believed herself reconciled—aye, even content to walk the weary treadmill of linked days and hope no more. She had ceased to care if she grew round-shoul-dered as other girls, and pale and pinched from the routine of the dusky factory-office, from which' she could only see the sweet sunlight creeping into the street along the forenoon’s stretch, and creeping out again upon the gray buildings opposite, where the afternoon shadow rose like a strong eea-tide. She had evep striven to go cheerfully, to her work morning after morning and to put into it what little heart was left, her out of all the tragic past. She' had learned to me&sure off the hours by certain infallible, sounds of the city; at half-past 9, the bell jringing for the opening of the warehouses; at 11, the same bell for the closing; at 12, the news-boys, shouting the nooni 'edition (at 1 she had a halfhour’s noon-time) ; at 2, again the warehouse bell; at 3, the early evening paper (now the sea-tide shadow crept toward the third-story window); at 5, a later edition; and at 6 came the end of the long day, when the whirr of machinery was done and the “hands” in the shipping-room back hushed their jargon and departed, when she, too, tired-eyed and with aching chest, might oreep along to her lonesome fourthstory lodgings. What a starved, stunted existence had been hers sine® she had come to the city! With what keen anguish she remembered the sweetness of the old, Affluent days, past forever! For, standing up to battle with the world, sfcr flbore, besides, the awful, burdening of a parent’s disgrace, Death had come upon her swiftly, 'Crushingly, that terrible night when her father had cut the knot of his •dilemma—insolvency and betrayed public trusts—with a single pistol-shot and lso —escaped. She had loved him too well to reproach him, dead, for deserting her—for not having prepared her, at least, to work. But all else being gone, she, too, had fled from the old town and flung herself into the whirl of the city. God only knew how hard it had been, and she so weak, so inexperienced! Had she been but fitted, as men fit their sons (hut not daughters, alas!) with a profession, or even a trade! This had been her only lament in darkest hours. Nevertheless, she had found work at last; hard, inexorable, poorly-recom-pensed. For every working day, a single dollar wherewith to purchase food and shelter, clothing and cleanliness, peace and virtue, and the thousand trifles of life. Those who paid it, thought it an excellent price. And all the stifling summer she had toiled on, silently, uncomplainingly, only at last to lose even this foothold, without wage or warning, at an employer’s caprice. That was a fortnight since—and ever since she had been hunting other employment. To-night she was penniless And in debt for rent. She wondered what would happen now. Was it beggary or starvation ? The river, or —a charitable institution! Of the two, she chose the river. When the shadows had conquered, some one struck a match in the long, outer passage, and the hall gas-light fihone through the transom. Still she lay silent and listened to the beating of a banjo —patient and persisting—in another apartment of the great building. The sounds jarred upon her in fretful continuity. And she was so tired, so hopeless, that she rose but slowly when some one came knocking. She rose but slowly and lit the gas; she smoothed her hair wearily, and stood a seconfl in thought. In the flash of unsteady light, her figure was pitifully fragile; her beauty—for beauty was not ■wholly wrecked —strange, awsome, with olivg-pallor, hectic-spotted and sharptinea profile. She opened the door, at length, and so stood face to face with a man whose bearing and attire bespoke prosperity. Less surprised than annoyed, apparently, she gave him scant welcome. ■“Natalie!" he cried, reproachfully,

and, entering, seemed disposed to remain. She hesitated a moment, then closed the door. “Well,” ho began, scanning the room with evident comprehension, “How do yon get along?” “Very well,” she answered, unwillingly. “I’m afraid you’re not glad to see me,” he said, after a moment, as if chagrined. She was silent. He drew his chair to her side and spoke appealingly: “Natalie, why do you hate me so?” She answered sadly, with drooping head; “It is out of my power to hate, or like —forever.” “Nonsense!” She lifted her face with a look o wonder and misgivings; and presently she questioned, as earnestly as had he himself: “Why do you follow me about, Harvey Drew ? It cannot be for old friendship’s sake, for you were not friend then, but enemy/ “ ‘ Enemy ’is a strong word. I was sore because you preferred Hunt Pierce—that was all. A thousand pities it was that he must be lost at sea just at the hour of your trouble —” Her solemn eyes rebuked him ere her passion-tremulous words: “Spare the dead, at least!” He moved back his chair impatiently, “You were engaged to him, then ?” “ Y es, ” —proudly. “Not married, though?” “Married?” “Oh, you might pardon the question. Remember I left the town before the trouble came. lam glad you were not married. ” “Why?” she asked, unflinchingly. He smiled in a quiet way, and said nothing. She studied his face fearfully for a space. It was not ill-favored, with its fair coloring, fine eyes and regular features; it was rather pleasant, but for a curve about the lips—the same curve that she remembered knowing in the old days, when Huntley Pierce (lover dead and gone, God help her!) had mistrusted, and counselled her against, this Harvey Drew. “An unprincipled fellow, ” her betrothed had said. (Ah, how she remembered all his words.) “When he sets his heart on having anything, he will go any length, stoop to any measures to secure it!” As she studied his face, it seemed to her the lip-curve grew deeper, more definite, and threatened a sneer, perhaps a snarl. She could hardly endure it. She lowered her eyes, and they were dazzled by > the diamond blazing in his cravat. Yes, Hunt had not trusted him, and Hunt had ever been true and right. , Bhe wished that’ he would go. Surely he must see that his oompany was distasteful. Why had he not more ■ manliness ? Why had he pursued her so of late ? She wondered if he knew she-had lost her place, and pitied her. But she did not ask his pity. She only praybd for his departure. Perhaps he divined as much. “You are going to send me away?” he asked, smiling faintly. She grasped the nearest excuse. “I have not yet been to my supper.” “Come right along with me.” She wondered if he would force her to absolute rudeness. “Why,” he burst out, sharply, “what is the matter? You won’t evQn be friendly. Don’t you suppose I know what a struggle you are having, and all about your financial state? You are too proud altogether* and. I—l want to help you.” He lowered his voice, and made a step forward as if to embrace her. She recoiled, trembling with rage. “If you have come to insult me, there is the door. You may go. Do not make me hate you!” Her scornful eyes blazed upon him until his face flushed. He took a step as if to leave, and an oath escaped him. Then he turned, .laughing lightly. “I like your snap. You are worth winning, Natalie, and—you have misjudged me. I meant no harm, believe . n me. She answered with dry incredulity, “Don’t do it again.” He waived the remark, and went on: “I am going now, but listen first to what I have to say. I always loved you—you know it, too. I’ve thought a great deal about marrying you—especially of late, because I knew what hard times you were having, and how pleasant I could make life for you.” She averted her face lest he note the scorn, the repugnance, she could not conceal, as his voice sank into an easy confidence. How absurd it all seemed! Was he joking V She could not determine. In any event, it was the sheerest mockery; even though he really cared for her, she could neither respect nor esteem, much less love him. And what if Hunt could know? She shuddered. “Please, please let it go!” she implored at length. “This is only the wildest fancy. I—l will not doubt your words. But it is absurd. Perhaps you are pitying me. Be oertain, I can always sustain myself. I will be your friend, if you like. That should be sufficient, I think,” concluding uneasily. “But, you see, it is not. Ah, Natalie !” with a touch of tenderness, “if you knew how much I cared for you 1 But—we’ll talk of it to-morrow. I see you want me to go. Good-night, dear.” He turned abruptly and swung himself out of the door. “Good-night,” she said, after him, in bewildered tone, and paced the room slowly, trying to reason sense out of his actions. It was grotesque, horrible, this notion of his. She wondered if he were truly sane! She fell into hysterical laughter. To marry him despising him as she “did! The wildness of hysteria passed away and left her gobbing quietly at her own desolation. That it should have come to pass that she must give Am second thought to this man’s words. Oh, it was terrible! And now her faced burned with a fever, and her brai# was crowded with an uproar of sounds, above which din the banjo was distinct, fretting over one trifling, fourbar strain of a comic song. Occasionally a sharp thought would

pierce the maze—the thought of possibility— the query of whether there could be more torture than she now endured, even if she were to take him at his word. Surely, she could not be worse distracted. And if he fret and vex her by' persistent following, he might as well “pay the piper.” And she laughed again hysterically. The banjo-player was still beating his instrument in a merciless way, but the hours wore on. She wished she could find a good side of the matter. It would be a relief to discover some virtue in him. She knew that he was a clever business man and always prosperous. Still, she despised him. Good heavens! Why keep on going over and over it? Why could she not dismiss it—-and him, since he could never be aught to her? What was it she remembered hearing about a girl marrying a man to get rid of him ? As the hours wore on, the house grew still, the gas flared and the wind struck the high window sharply. It was growing colder without. Sometimes she walked to and fro, sometimes she fell despairingly on the bed; always her face burned and her hands were icy and powerless. She heard a clock strike twelve. Perhaps he would not return; perhaps he had done this to revenge himself —to rouse her hopes, knowing her distress, and disappoint them. She felt the need of composing herself to rest, since on the morrow she mnst search anew. The rent was due; cold weather coming on. Work must be found. Merciful heaven! what longings, what anxiety! Sleep? She dozed a little,-despite the gnawing pain. Perhaps this was hunger; she had not eaten since morning. Hunger and heartache. The clock struck again over the fill 1 ATI PA fwi PA Why, then, did she still live? Why had she not died that night, when the pistol-shot seemed to pierce her own brain as it had pierced her father’s? Why had she not died when the news had come of her lover’s fate ? Lost at sea! Ah, heaven! Since she had once loved and should never love again, it mattered little what happened. Even she might marry this man—if he came again, and were in earnest. He would possibly be kind. No; she would struggle no longer; she felt herself grown weakly pliant. And the worst would be only death; the worst, also the best. Aye, but if he took her he knew what he was taking. A soulless, worn-out creature, who endured him. And yet, thousands of women had done infinitely worse. She was moaning aloud, moaning as if in pain. By-and-by her moand subsided to long-drawn sighs, as though after anguish had come relief. “She would say to him,” she sighed, if lie came again on the morrow, “that if —if he cared so much, he might —take her!” And now she sat upright with blurred vision and dull murmurs in her ears. No longer suspense! No further uncertainty. Only a stupid weariness of mind. * * * * The clock had struck four long since. The blue darkness was resolving into gray at the high window, for dawn approached. The room seemed stifling. She climbed up and knelt on the sill, raised the sash and looked out over the neighboring roof, panting for the freshness of the new day. Yonder, from behind the great lake, should rise ere long the morning. Already a pale green flickered from thread to shield, and gradually grew golden, glorious, as the slow sun’s splendor touched the sky line, and thrilled the dumb heavens to waking rapture. So kneeling, and gazing, she hardly felt the coldness of the air piercing her chest like steel; she only saw the glory of liquid gold bridging the great waters as if yonder were paradise. And slowly out of those shining precincts she by-and-by seemed to see advanoe his image—or himself, her lover—glorified, -With outstretched, compassionate hands.

She gave a low, moaning cry as if in answer: “See! Ah see! I have been true! I have been true!” Then a mist veiled her heavily; vaguely she knew herself falling. The room was bright with another soul-mocking morrow when she opened her eyes and found herself lying bruised and cramped where she had fallen from the high sill. It was a great effort to arise. Her limbs were full of pain, sharp-lasting pain. It was long before she could straighten herself sufficient to reach up and extinguish the still-burning gas. Yet there was an inward strength and a strange peace of soul. When some one knocked she quietly unbolted the door; nor did she start or tremble to find it was Drew, calling early and looking surprised at her haggardness. “Are you ill ?” lie asked. “No;I am—quite well, —and strong.” “Well, I only dropped in on my way to business—and to tell you—to ask you if I should come to-night. Somehow I felt as if you treated what I said as a—joke. But I was not joking.” She looked at him very calmly. “I thought it over last night,” she said, presently. “I did not think you were joking.” “Well?” “Well—l do not love you; I cannot sell myself—let it go—and—l thank you.” He was daunted at last; he stared, then flushed angrily. “You may be sorry, Miss Grey,” he said. “Good morning.” She flung herself upon her knees as he turned away, and gave a wild, sobbing cry: “Thank God! Thank God for temptation—and for the strength to resist—and to suffer!” Was it the end? Whose brisk step rang up the bare hall? Who thrust the door wider and, as he heard her sobs, gave passionate utterance to a long-stored greeting ? “Natalie, my darling!” She turned as if the dead had called her, turned with ashen face. “Huntl Oh, God I You are not dead!” “Not dead, oh, my loved one!” and his arms received her; and she was safe.— Chicago Ledger .

CHINAMEN AT DINNER.

How the Celestial* Eat—A Queer Measure of Wisdom. “Have you eaten?” (Che lao fan nina may you?) is as common a greeting among the Chinamen as our “How do you do?” In their opinion, he who is able to eat is surely well, happy and all right in every respect. Eating is- the most common subjeot of conversation among them. “How many meals a day have you?” “How many bowls of rioe do you eat in a day?" In answer to such questions, the Celestials always name a larger number of meals than they really have, and when, with their hands, they show you the size of their bowls, you must understand that they usually hyperbolize. They often address foreigners such questions as these: “Have you rice in your country ?” “How many meals a day do your countrymen eat ?" It is a common opinion among Chinamen that foreigners come to China because they have nothing, or not enough, to eat at home. Chinamen hold that the stomach is the source of intellectual life, and, therefore, the more portly a man is the wiser he must be. In their language the sentenoe, “He eats much,” is synonymous with, “He is a wise man. ” To treat a guest or a visitor to a meal at any time of the day is considered here as a mark of refined politeness. Chinamen eating is the most familiar scene here, and it can be witnessed in the streets and yards, as well as in the eating houses, hotels and private houses. Only Chinamen who have families take their meals at home; the rest eat at hotels. Usually they have two substantial meals a day —in the morning, an hour after they get up. and between 3 and 4 o’olock p. m. Well-to-do Chinamen have three or four meals a day. The head of the family gets the best articles of food. Often only the father eats meat, while the rest of the family must be satisfied with rice. In olden times the children, although they might be married, were not allowed to either eat, sit or talk while their father ate; they served him as servants. Nowadays, even in the Celestial empire, such veneration for age is gone; it is observed only as a meaningless ceremony in the presence of guests. Poor families usually get their meals from street venders. These carry provisions along with a small stove on a wheelbarrow. Well-to-do families usually employ cooks. The guild of cooks is very numerous here, and the cooks get their. degrees and diplomas like men of science. A learned Chinese cook can prepare pork and mutton in fifty different styles. All cooks here pocket a certain percentage on the provisions they buy for their masters. The Celestials use no table-cloth, napkins, knives, forks, spoons, dishes, plates or glassware. The European style of eating with knives and forks they criticise as being rather work than pleasure. They do not use a white table-cloth, because it reminds them of deep mourning. Instead of napkins they use packages of thin, soft paper, which serve them also for handkerchiefs. They throw away the sheets of paper after they have been once used, and scorn Europeans for using the same handkerchief several times. Since 1820, when the Chinese thoroughly made the acquaintance of Europeans, the napkin has come into use among them, particularly in Canton, but they modified its use. In a corner of the napkin they make a hole and hang it from a button on a servant’s dress. The servant with the napkin goes from one guest to another, and thus a score of Celestials may use the same napkin. Each guest has a saucer, a pair of sticks ( kuaytzi ), a package of paper, and a minute cup with salt sauoe. Neither Bticks nor saucer are changed during the dinner. Warm tea and warm whisky are served many times during the dinner. When a Chinaman gives a formal dinner he invites his guests either personally or by cards. Those who accept the invitation inform the host and send him money, provisions and presents, at the cost of from half a dollar up to hundreds of dollars. The money and presents are entered in a special book which is carefully preserved for reference. On the appointed day the guests appear, and the host with numberless ceremonies receives them and leads them to the tents which are put up in the yard. These contain rows of tables, each table seating eight persons. “The tables of the eight sages,” they call them, for, according to tradition, the great Confucius with his disciples used such tables. The Chinese women never dine with the men. For the amusement of the guests they improvise a stage and perform a play in which boys take the female roles. It is considered, however, bad taste to pay much attention to the play. I must say that the Chinese dinners are very tiresome. No topic of general interest is ever discussed at them. A gastronomist who knows everything about various articles of food commands the most attention. Everybody smokes during the dinner. When the Celestials feel about satisfied they amuse eaoh other with homespun pUns or childish pranks, such as guessing whether one of the “eight sages” has an odd or even number of watermelon seeds. The dinner is crowned by a story or legend narrated by some more or less known orator. —Letter from Pekin.

Rapidity of Thought.

Some recent investigations relating to the speed of thought are thus summed up in the American Journal of Arte and Sciences: “Sensations are transmitted to the brain at a rapidity of about 180 feet per second, or at one-fifth the rate of sound; and this is nearly the same in all individuals. The brain requires one-tenth of a second to transmit its orders to the nerves which preside over voluntary action; but this amount varies much in different individuals, and in the same individual at different times, according to the disposition or condition at the time, and is more regular the more sustained the attention. The time required to transmit an order to the muscles by the motor nerves is nearly the same as that required by the nerves of sensation to pass a sensation; moreover, it passes nearly one-hundreth of a second before

the muscles are put in motion. The whole operation requires one and one-fourth to two-tenths of a second Consequently, when we speak of ar aotive, ardent mind, or one that is slow, cold or pathetio, it is not a mere figure of rhetoric, but an absolute and certain fact that such a distinction, with varying gradations, really exists.

A Quiet Life.

About fifteen years ago, a young man whom we shall call John X was the chief favorite of the most exclusive and refined social circle in one of our Atlantic seaboard cities. The reasons for his prominent position were obvious. He was descended from an old English family that had borne a foremost part in the Revolution ; he was the heir to large wealth; he lived alone in the stately old homestead which he had inherited, filled with treasures of costly books, pictures, the innumerable rare belongings which accumulate, generation after generation, in an affluent and cultured family. John X held the position of a prince Of the blood among the fashionable nouveaux riches of his native city. He danced well, he was known to have a singularly-sweet and powerful voice, though he seldom sang. He talked little, but he was the best of listeners. Whenever his slight, erect figure and quiet, swarthy face appeared in a ballroom, there was sure to be a crowd of the foremost men and most beautiful women. But-apart from all these outward advantages, there was a peculiar charm in the man which no one could define. It lay, probably, in the total absence of sham, pretense or of self-conscious-ness in him. He annoyed you neither with vanity nor modesty; he simply did not think of John X at all. He thought of you, your interest, your pleasure; of the duty that lay before him, of the thing to be done at the moment. , There was no underlying thought of “I” or “me.” This lack of self-consciousness may seem an ordinary virtue, but it is as rare as the Kohinoor among diamonds. His fashionable associates knew that he was a member of tie Christian church; but he was not a man who could boast of the relations between himself and God before strangers. One evening there was a dinner where he was expected; his chair remained vacant, and before it was over word came that he was dead. “John X ,” said some one who knew him well, “answered death as quietly and promptly as he did every other call to duty.” After he was in his grave it became known for the first time to his family and friends that he had been for years a constant visitor to the hospitals and prisons of the city; and one-third of his income was spent in trying to reform and help discharged prisoners.- Indeed, it was from a fever taken in one of these jails that he died. Emerson, who knew him well, said of him: “He had one of the largest, sweetest moral natures I ever encountered, and the most singular lack of selfesteem. After he died, happening to pick up an English paper, I saw a notice that ‘John X , one of the four greatest chess-players in the World, was dead.’ Now, I had known him intimately for years, yet never suspected that he could make a move upon the board. ” The outline of such a character cannot but be useful in an age and among a people where pretentious display and self-esteem are but too common. It offers the same contrast as does a fine cartoon in black and white hung in the midst of gaudy chromos. We do not give the real name of this man, for it would please him better, we are sure, that the good he did should live while he himself should sleep in an unknown grave.— Youth's Companion.

Mechanical Speculations.

A correspondent inclosed a published slip from a newspaper in which he has suggested the storage of wind power by means of winding up gigantic springs like watch-springs when the wind is high and free, the power thus obtained to be given out as needed. He suggests the heating of our dwellings by the compressing of air, and the cooling of them by expanding the air. He considers electric light and the mechanical power for any necessary handy purposes as being also produots of this harnessed wind force. But he goes still further and suggests the millenium of laziness. He says: “Our food and clothing are now produced by very tedious, inconvenient, laborious, circumlocuted and expensive means. The raw materials, from which they are produced, are dirt, water and air. The in ter-chemic il action of these materials, aided by heat and light, managed by a vast amount of mechanical force,'is the modus operandi of production. But heat and light being interchangeable with mechanical force, why is it not possible to produce food and clothing, in finished form, directly out of dirt, water and air by mechanical force?” This unanswerable question appears to cut off debate and close the subject. —Scientific American.

A London Fish Story.

An angler went to work by the side of a pond. He fished with a worm, and had not been at work five minntes before he had a bite. He caught an eel but found some difficulty in hauling it out. "When he succeeded, however, he found another eel hanging to its tail. The second eel had another attached to it, and the third eel hauled out a fourth, and so on. The angler, surprised and disgusted, set out to walk home. At last he found his burden ; heavier than 'he could bear and he laid down his rod. talking back he found no fewer than 150 eels in a line Curious to see how far the fishes would extend, he walked back and sat down in the grass. Then he began to haul away, and before he had got the last he counted 6,500 eels. Even then they came up in battalions to get hold of the tail of that last fish, but missed it. The special trains employed by Her Majesty Victoria during the past nineteen years have cost $46,300. The British public imagined that she paid for these herself, but is shocked to learn that the Government has footed the bills. , _ *

HUMOR.

(From the Burlington Hawk eye.] A Pullman car porter was found dead in the smoking-room of his car. The investigation by the Coroner’s jury revealed the fact that the President oi the road had given the man a quarter, and the astonished man had died of the shock. Thk mosquitoes at Cape May carry tourniquets and syptics with them, in order to check the flow of blood from the patient after the nocturnal repast is over. This has saved the lives of many guests and the popularity of Cape May is just booming in consequence. ■ “Malvina” wants to know how Mr. Peabody, the philanthropist, pronounced his name. Well, “Malvina,” here in America he was called Peabody, with the accent on every syllable, broad and plain, but in England they averaged things by simply calling him “P'b’dy.” The Spanjphl have a proverb, “The man who stumbles twice oh the same sthne is a fool.” There may be something very profound in that, but we fail to see it. We can’t see whv one good stone, that will outlast a dozen fetimes, isn’t just as good for a man to do all his stumbling over, as a great expensive collection of miscellaneous stones, so widely scattered that a lost car agent couldn’t keep track of half of them. The Spaniards are a well-mean-ing people, but you can’t expect very much of a people who spell “Hosay* with a “J.” [From the Williamsport Grit J A last resort— A summer resort. When a man loses his mind, does he mind his loss? Judge to youth: “What is the nature of an oath?” “It is human.” Thebe is a man in Williamsport so miserly that he won’t ride to his own funeral. The attempt of many people to play upon words is as abominal as is their playing upon pianos. “Be sure you are right, then go ahead,” is a very good motto, but “Be sure she is rich, then go ahead,” is better. Some Western speculators got up a comer in hay which lasted for severa weeks, but it was finally broken. We suppose it was a case where the bulls and bears both lived in clover for a season. [From Carl Pretzel’® Weekly.] The last thing in life—The “e.” Land poor—The average emigrant. Men who love a quiet pursuit should embark in the still business. The milkman sells sweet-milk, but, when we buy it, it’s our milk. An attorney without business should be for then he is lawless. Tbavelers won’t pay a cowardly conductor of a railroad train, for none but the brave deserve the fare. A young lady dressmaker can never give satisfaction. « Her garments will always be miss-fits. Printers would be extremely happy if editors would get all their copyrighted before it falls into their hands. David Davis says he don’t object to newspaper paragraphers joking about the size of his pants, but when they say his trousers are big enough for Baroum’s “Jumbo” and a hippopotamus to play “Peek-a-boo” or “Hide and Seek” in, thinks it is time to “cheese the racket.”

A Race of Sailors.

Talking of ships, it is wonderful to see how the heredity proclivity to get into a boat and sail somewhere is developed among the Norwegian youth and at what an early age. You see parties of small boys in boats that are miniature reproductions of the old Yiking ship, rowing and sailing about and managing oars and sails like veteran tars. A little fellow, apparently „ 9 or 10 years old, will sit in the stern-sheets and handle his tiller and order about his crew, consisting of three or four urohins of the same age, or a year or two younger than himself, with all the sang-froid and self-possession of an old pilot. Sometimes they come to grief and get drowned, though it is wonderfully seldom, considering the number of almost infantile sailors, that accidents occur. As for attempting to keep them away from the water, I am sure a timid mother would have as hopeless a task in trying to keep her offspring of the male sex on dry land as an old hen to warn her brood of duck chicks from a neighboring pond. Seeing the juvenile population all paddling about, one ceases to wonder that little Norway should boast a commercial navy of sailing-ships second only to that of Great Britain.— Cor . San Francisco Chronicle.

Consumptives.

A physician who writes for the Continent about the curative powers of nature is positive in his conviction that it is better for a consumptive to stay at home, where he can be comfortable, than subject himself to the discomfort of hotel life, or the greater inconvenience of a camp. He says that the camp cure may be fairly tried by sleeping on one’s own housetop. Another ihedical man replies that the summer conditions of spruce forests are eminently favorable, and consumptives have recovered in the most surprising way living under canvas in them, where the air is impregnated with the healing emanations peculiar to the nondeciduous tree growths. There are consumptives whose lungs crave the salt air of the ocean; others to whom the dry atmosphere of Colorado is in finitely soothing; and others, again, who are benefited by the climate of Florida or Southern California. “To prescribe Florida for one person might mean death, while if he went among tße Northern paradise of spruce recovery might follow.” It is hard to act a part long, for, ■where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavoring to return, and will peep out and betray herself one time or another.— Tillotson. Tennyson smokes clay, pipes, taking a fresh one every day.