Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1883 — Page 6

BUTTER THAN GOU). BY FATHER liYAN. Betfcpr than grandeur, better than gold. Than rank and titles a thousandfold, la a healthy body and a mind at ease And eimple’pleaaures that always please; A heart that can feel for another's woe, with sympathies large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold. Better th«n gold is a conscience clear, Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere, Doubly blessed with content and health. Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth. Lowly living and lofty thought Adorn and ennoble a poor man’s cot, For mind and morals in nature’s plan Are the genuine tests of a gentleman. Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons, of toil when the labors close. Better than gold is the poor man’s sleep, And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed, Where luxury pillows its acning head, The toiler simple opiate deems A shorter route to the laud of dreams. Better than gold Is a thinking mind. That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore,. And live With the great and good of yore, The sage’s lore and the poet’s lay, The glories of empires passed away; The world’s great dream will thus unfold And yield a pleasure better than gold. Better than gold is a peaceful jiome Where all the lireside characters come,The shrine of love, the heaven of life. Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. However humble the home may be, Or tried with sorrow by heaven’s decree; The blessings that never were bought or sold And center there are better than gold.

SAVED, OR LOST?

BY LILY M. CURRY.

Had he crucified me, I must still have loved him! I said this over and over to myself, that awful night, as I ran on in the darkness and the rain, skimming heap and hollow alike in my race with death. It cannot hurt me to think of it now, or to write it all down as I sit waiting for them to come and take me away to a certain safe retreat, of which they have spoken, where I may, by and by, forget completely the scorching fire of the lurid eye and the thunder dance of the monster, whiqh seemed to shake the world from under my feet forever. Shriek ? I thought I was past crying Imt. And yet, I ran onward in the dark and the rain, hoping and praying aloud to Heaven to give me strength and speed and bring me there in time—in time to rescue the innocent; in time to snatch his soul from the clutch of the demon, Murder! I felt, as I ran, the sudden conviction that I had long known him unworthy; that my father had rightly warned me —my patient, slow-judging father. Still, granting this knowledge, there had been no hour past, there would he no hour future, when I could renounce him. I had felt tenderness for him—for Claude—from the beginning, when ho had come to us, a wanderer, ancLfather had more than willingly accepted his offer to work for a home—just to work a little in the green-house. For this was father’s occupation, to keep a nursery and winter-garden, just up from the village whence he forwarded all to the city, a five-hour’s journey. Claude was truly welcome. He had a bright glance, and always could think of a merry story, laughing himself in wholesomd, boyish fashion, and leading us also to laugh. He said he was anxious to settle down and to tramp the country no longer. If his mother had lived, he said, his own mother—if his father had not married a young woman who hated her husband’s son, it would never have been thus. When he said this I went aw r ay quickly out of the room. My eyes were blind with sympathy, though my father had not taken a second wife. In this way Claude had come to us—young, perhaps 20 (and I was 17); comely, cheerful when he had rested and supped—cheerful, with snatches of ®ong or whistled tune, and tales of the -city, whither we never went. Not stranger-like, hut as son and brother, -who had come home.

I would not have him go for anything • —anything on earth, I said, as I fell that night. He had brought isunsliine and music to our poor abode. He must remain; he should and would. Ah! you would hot smile if you knew the dull, dead life I led—the stagnant village below, the barren hills above and about, with little to do but read my few old books or father’s weekly paper, and listen longingly to the shriek and hum of the railroad trains that passed on the farther side of the town —passed and repassed on high trestle-work, or along narrow cuts,with a foot’s space between the rail and the edge of the embankment, with gulleys and ravines just below. Night after night, to the West and the East; day after day, to the.. East and the West—so went the through express, stopping only on signal at the village station. It was early in the spring when Claude had come to us, and now the summer had gone. Father had been busy, as usual, freezing his roses at the “dog-days” with ice, purposely stored the winter previous, that they might bloom again for the holidays—those luscious roses, crimson and golden, for which the city dealers paid us so little! And I! I had been happy! Happy with wild throbbings of my heart and wakeful hours at night! Not happy constantly, for there was that which counterbalanced joy. Claude had failed to help with the work, as he had promised, and father was sorely disappointed. Yes, it had come to be the exception when Claude went into the greenhouse instead of sauntering off to the village and there remaining all day. By-and-by, he spent only the nights at home; still, father was very patient. Perhaps he, too, had grown to love the boy, and felt something of the heartache that I knew at the hour when Claude, on finishing his breakfast, would glance about for his cap. Were I to live a thousand years I should never forget that slow pang as he rose from the table each morning and went; or the longing, the anxiety for the well-known step at night when tea awated him. For many days I rose an hopr ealier than usual and worked at what father must surely see, si fancy Claude had done. I hoped thus to keep father patient and satisfied. Bat the autupin was advancing, and

he was extra busy; and one morning, when he remonstrated with Claude. Clande grew very angry (I knew this was wrong); he grew so angry that he packed his few things and went away forever. As he opened the door to go, I thought my heart would burst. I followed him down the path to the gate; I think my face must have shown my suffering. “Claude, Claude!” I cried, “Are you going away? What shall I do, if you go ? How can I live ?” Unwomanly? Perhaps it was. My books would say so, but my heart did not. Besides, why should I pretend? Pretense is lying. He turned and looked half startled; then he smiled. “I guess I’d better go, John” —he always called me John, though my name was Effie Effie Dix. A moment iater he spoke seriously: “ John, you’ve always been my friend, and I hate to be cut off from seeing you; but I can’t come here any more. Don|t you know any friend’s house in the village where we could see each other once in a while?” That was the way I came jo meet him, unknown to my father; day after day, day after day, oftenest at a certain hour toward dusk, by the great tree at the first turn of the road. How little it seemed! I would have gone miles to see his face. I cannot tell when it was that we first fell into each other’s arms, with lovewords and kisses, tender, passionate, eternal kisses, that burn iu spirit now upon my brow and lips. Will I ever forget ? As the weeks passed, I lived only for these stolen moments. I went about my work in a feverish way, fearing to hear father speak, as lie did occasionally, with regret and disapproval, of Claude. I could not hear my lover condemned or even criticised; it seemed to me I must defend him fiercely at any cost. Yet, father was never unreasonable ; he had been stung by an ingratitude for which there was no excuse. This I acknowledged, but, to me, the sins of my lover were not sins. It was late in October, when I wondered for the first time how Claude would spend the winter, and at what he was working, for I knew he had little, if any, money. I spoke of it one evening, with my face resting on his shoulder; spoke earnestly, and sought a sober reply. But he hade me not to worry; he had a scheme at hand, which would call him to the city very soon, he hoped—a good scheme, with money in it. “To the city!” I cried sharply; “away from me?” His kisses hushed the cry. “You will come with me,” he said. He would knpw shortly, and I must be ready at any moment. I was not certain whether he meant an attempt at reconciliation with father, or whether he meant an elopement. Little I cared —crazed with love. I went home with my head on fire, and father said, half-chidingly, that I was a foolish girl to race about till my face was wind-burnt. I laughed in reply, “It makes me happy.” Father had been to the village that morning, and spoke at tea of having seen Claude.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that the boy is going steadily''downward. ” “Why, father.” My heart was choking me, hut I kept my voice controlled. “He was in had company to-day; badlooking at least. Idle, vagabondish fellows. Effie, have you seen him since he left?” I started, but answered slowly. “Yes,” I said, for I could not lie. “Effie, I know you thought a good deal of him —so did I, ” sighing. “But I wouldn’t go about with him, if I were you. ” Then I knew some one had seen us together, and prated of it. There were two weeks more to come —weeks of pain and passion—ere the end. But this I could not know. In the course of those weeks a change had come over my lover—a serious change. We met iess often, because he was busy. He was worried too, and irritable, even with me. He said, ah Heaven! He said and did careless, cruel things. Twice I watched for him at the old place, shivering in the bleakest wind; he did not come. I only loved him more wildly. He spoke, too, so indefinitely about our going away. Still I waited. Ah! I wonder if I can write of that last night ? Hitherto, when I have recalled- it, my brain has become as a seething whirlpool, and all I‘l ave known has been blackness and the rain beating on my bare head, and the distant thunder of the monster with lurid eye and the scorching heat close upon me—and so, do you wonder —I have ended in shriek and swoon ? It was raining; raining slowly, with a rising wind, when I crept from the house and down the road to the turn, and the great tree, where he was waiting. My heart swelled gratefully that he should have come so far in the rain. But his first words chilled me through and through. “I cau’t stay but a moment, John, I’m going away to-night, only for a day or two, to Jonesville (twenty miles off). If I’m detained longer, I’ll write you. So good-by, for I have to catch the train.” “But,” I stammered, “but the train is not, dub for three hours.” “Well, I have to see the stationmaster and put up the signal. ” His impatience cut me cruelly; still I was quiet enough. “Claude,” I said, “please—if you have a pencil and scrap of paper—please write me an address at Jonesville. Then, if you you are too busy to write, I can do so. It—it will help pass the time.” I wordd not hide the sob that came into my breast. I wanted him to know I loved him fondly and forever —down to eternity. Hej drew some loose papers from his pockfet and scribbled on one, as well as he cduld in the darkness, his name—- “ Claude Garrison” —and the town. I haveithe card yet; it lies next my heart; it is all I have left. “Now, good-by,” he said, thrusting the other papers carelessly into his hippocket ; and, after one long, last kiss, he strode away rapidly, more rapidly than I had ever seen him.

I tried to watch him; bnv it was almost night, and the ram fell steadily. When at length I, too, turned to leave the place, I caught sight of something he must have dropped from among his papers lying at my very feet. I picked it np and slipped it into my pocket with the address he had written. I would have run after him, but that he walked so fast he was now far beyond call. So I went home, and, entering softly through the wood-shed, prepared the tea. I was more uneasy and feverish than ever; but tried to listen patiently wiiile father described a new rose he was growing as an experiment. Occasionally I comforted myself with squeezing my pocket to find the precious address safely hidden there. Presently father took up his weekly paper, and I carried the tea things into the kitchen, where I halted for reflection. It occurred to me that the letter he had dropped might be of importance to him while at Jonesville, and if so I must send it to him at once. I took it out to see. It was a queer letter ; I could not find the postmark. I did not like the ' handwritting; but I opened and read it. I cannot well describe how strange I felt as I read slowly down the first page and turned the sheet to continue. Such feelings are indescribable. As nearly as I remember, it was, at first,.a dull stupidity which seemed to envelop my mind so thoroughly that I needed to read the opening sentence a halfdozen times or more ere comprehending. After this came a strong, cold shudder of mortal fear and agony, which lasted many moments; then quiet, absolute quiet in every nerve and fiber except the heart, which heat with clear regularity, like a calm voice devising and arranging. Now, I knew all; some mysterious veil was removed and I saw with acutest vision. I knew what my lover was involved in, what he purposed, and where he had gone to-night. I knew that my father had judged Claude’s companions correctly—that they were vagabonds, villains, who had planned to wreck the night-express at the great curve, before it could have reached the village. At the great cqrve! Oh, God! I could picture the scene. The heavy logs laid close across the track, the swift rush, the crash, the overturning coaches pitching and piling into the ravine—the shrieks, perhaps the flame —the awful doom of the innocent and helpless! And what madness to think that vengeance would not quickly fall upon such deeds. No doubt, no doubt they had made him —Claude —the merest tool, and would manage their own escape in some way, leaving him to the hands of village justice. Ours was a quiet town, but what place would not rouse at this fiendish work. Mohs, ropes, tree-limbs —oh, could I do nothing? “God in Heaven,” I moaned, “Aid me, give me strength!” I ran to the clock. It was long past 7, and the train should reach the village before 9, if on time. I prayed it might be late, for I had miles and miles to go in the night and the storm, I glanced into the sitting-room; father was asleep in his chair—he often dozed thus through the entire evening. I trusted his sleep would last, or he would think I had gone up to my bedroom, if he wakened. I caught a little jacket from the wall and slipped it on; no hat or bonnet, though—the less burdened the better. I thrust some matches in my pocket, and found the lantern hanging in the woodshed. I shook it and knew there was oil enough. Then I started. I tried to run steadily, with lips tight shut, to waste ho breath. I did not light the lantern, for I must not be seen. Nor did I fear running 'blindly onward since I knew the road—on this side the village at least. Sometimes I almost flew; sometimes I stumbled into puddles, and felt the water soaking through my shoes. If only I could reach there in time! I chose the darkest street of the village, when at length that far, slackening speed until out again upon the road beyond. It would not have served me to rouse the station-master, for telegraphing would not avail, since the train would have left the nearest station where there was an operator. Beside, could I trust any one with this secret? Nay; I must manage with my own strength and prayers. Still on madly, wildly! There was a sharp pain in my chest, but it should not check me. God would surely help me on; He would not let me die till I had accomplished this task. At last I struck the railroad at a road crossing, and thenceforth followed it, running as best I could between the tracks. I remember the wet cinders cringing under my feet; the rank weeds, unharvested by frost, and the burrs that gathered on my skirts. I remember feeling that I must be near the awful, spot, where lay thef death-line of low-piled logs. But, oh, God be thanked if I had come in time! Just for a second I stooped and tried to push the obstacles from the track. The strength of two men was needed, and I —was breathless. I opened the lantern and struck a match. The wind blew it out! I struck another and shielded the blaze. The lantern burned brightly, and, now, even now I fancied, began the faintest tremor of the rails. I passed the curve and ran desperately forward, trembling as I ran, to see the headlight burst from behind another, a lesser curve and woods, a half mile down. Was it coming? Could it stop in time ? I flew on. But, what was this? Another step besides my own, following, overtaking me, a grasp of my arm, a terrible grip that made me moan with pain—a voice that hissed into my very brain: “How came you here ?” I Kfted my lantern and stood face to face with Claude. Even then, at that awful moment, when my life was a trifle to undo what he had done—l loved him. At that awful moment when his glance was hatred—hared and vengeance com' mingled.

Had he crucified me, it must still have been the same. I raised the lantern higher. “Thank God if I have saved you!” 3 cried, shrilly. Then the headlight burst from behind the lower curve and grew a terrible glare. I started ahead, waving the lantern from side to side and shrieking hoarsely. “Danger, danger! Stop, for God’s sake! Danger, danger!” How the shrieks clove to my numb mouth and tongue! How he held me back! Need he have feared? Could he not trust me ? How I battled to swing the lantern free from his grasp! I was strong—strong for tfye moment as a tiger; and, though he tried to hinder me, I swung the light and shrieked against the thunder-danoe and the lurid eye that shook and scorched both.

Then—ah, Heaven! Ido not know how or why it happened, and therein lies my madness —if I be truly mad. But he, too, must have been mad, else he had not slipped or tumbled or whirled away into the path of the iron monster, and danced and whirled and kept on whirling up in the night and whirling down in the night and whirling forever and evermore. Had they not lifted me up when the dance was ended and the train stood quiet, three yards from the curve behind which Death was crouching—had they not lifted me up and borne me to shelter, from which I was at length carried home, I should still be lying there—lying there in silence,face downward, on the wet cinders and the straggling weeds. For why should I rise? Why, though I had saved the hundreds of innocents, and snatched his soul from the clutch of the demon murder? Why, indeed, when Claude was lost to me forever ?

Children’s Games and Frolics.

A quiet blind man’s buff game which may be played in the house is known by the euphonious name of “Still Pond N o Moving. ” One child is blindfolded and stands in the middle of the room counting 100 by fives, then calls out “Still pond no moving.” The others hide in some part of the room, and the one who is “it” gropes about until he catches some one whom he must name. If anyone moves then he is blindfolded and has to be “it. ” A lady in Brooklyn, who has four little girls and three small hoys, has a game for them called “Housekeeping.” Every morning they clean up their nursery. Two ot them have little brooms and they do the sweeping, while a little tot of 3 years in a pink cap aud apron takes up the dust in a tiny dust-pan. The boys move the furniture about and then they all dust. They also dust the two parlors every morning, and seldom break anything. This is good exercise for them, and they enjoy it greatly. No grown-up person bothers them while they work, but their mother inspects it and points out improvements after it is done. “Oh, I wish it was warm weather, so the children could play out doors!” is an exclamation often heard during the months of cold wmather. Some days this month even it has been too cold for the little ones to remain out long, although every sensible mother should take her children out into the fresh air every clear day in the year/ unless they are sick. But the many hours a child spends indoors during winter ought to be filled with play of an amusing and instructive character. In the first place, do not forbid the children the kitchen, for in that most busy room of the house they may learn many useful things; g,nd what child does not like to see cakes and pies made, and have the disli the cake was mixed in after the cake is in the oven, or make a little pie or* cake of their own out of a piece <Jf dough ? Another mother in this city who has a large family of children has a game for them which they play every night. It is called “Circus” by the children and affords an excellent opportunity for exercise. They all form in a straight line, with their arms folded behind them and march backward and then forward to gay music played by then mother, singing some simple music, such as Six little children, all in a row, Backward, forward, here we all go. Then they place the hands clasped over* the head and march again singing; then thdjr place their hands on each other’s shoulders and march. One child recites a little poem every night, and is crowned with a wreath of flowers, the children forming a circle about her and singing. Then the father holds a spelling match, over which they have great fun, after which they sing a hymn and go off to bed, their eyes sparkling with fun and exercise and their memories, voices and lungs gaining strength by the game. A useful and instructive game for children a little older is called “Finding.” Each one has a map, say of Asia, or they may cluster around a big map. Some one of them says, “Find Pekin.” Then they hunt for it and whoever finds it and locates it properly has the next turn.— New York Journal.

What a Baby Can Do.

A baby can wear out a $1 pair of kid shoes in twenty-four hours. It can keep its father busy advertising in the newspapers for a nurse. It can occupy both sides of the largest-sized bed manufactured simultaneously. It can make the authors of its being’s wash bills foot up to $5 a week' and not be feeling at all well. It can crowd to suffocation the smoking-car of a railroad train with indignant passengers between two stations. It can cause its father to be insulted by every secondclass boarding-house keeper in the city who “never take children.” It can make an old bachelor in the room adjoining use language that, if uttered on the street, would get him into the penitentiary for two years. It can, in ten minutes, drive a man frantically from his home, and cause him to seek the companionship of a locomotive blowing off steam. —Philadelphia Vail. Julia. A. Moore, the sweet singer of Michigan, has disposed of 4,000 volumes of her poems.

The Slim Han's Remarkable Shot. A number of gentlemen were in the depot waiting-room admiring a fine lot of ducks a friend had shot up on the lake, and were somewhat surprised to hear him tell of killing three ducks with one discharge of his gun. About this time a slim, pointed-nosed man, who had been quietly listening, remarked : “That’s nothing very extraordinary.” “May be that’s the way you always kill ducks,” sarcastically remarked the hunter. “Wal, that depends on how I load my gun,” replied the slim man. “Then it does make a difference how you load, does it? I presume you use about a peck of six-ounce bullets ?” remarked the hunter, who began to feel that the glory with which he had covered himself, had melted, and was beginning to run off. “Wal, now don’t you get rattled. I lon’t know as I’ll give the scheme vway,” retorted the slim man. “How many ducks did you ever kill |n one shot?” asked an interested listener. “Wal, stranger, I’ve killed and strung over fifty of ’em,” answered the slim’ man. “Fifty ducks at one shot!” exclaimed half a dozen. “Yes, over fifty,” replied the islm man, “an’ I don’t mind telling ye how twas done, if ye really want to know." “How on earth could you do such a thing? You must have been where the ducks were thick ?” ventured a meeklooking individual. “Wal, if ye’ll give me a chancel’ll tell ye. I took a trip up to Calumet several years ago, and I never seed so many ducks in all my life. I took an old musket along anil one cartridge.” “One cartridge!” exclaimed half a dozen. “You don’t mean to say you only took one cartridge and no other ammunition?” “W.. 1 I didn’t take anything else but an old army musket, one cartridge and a big spool of wire thread. That’s the sum total of what I always take. Ye see, I ” “What was the wire for?” inquired the meek man. “Wait till I finish, hang it, an’ ye’ll know. Wal, when I got out on clear water away from the rushes I saw about 1,000,000 ducks right ahead of me. I just took the end of the wire and fastened it to the bullet in the cartridge and loaded my gun an’ put the spool on the bottom of the boat, where I thought it wouldn’t become tangled up, and then I waited for a good chance. I happened to blow my nose, which, of course, made a noise, when every duck raised his head to see what was up. I drew a bead on the eye of the duck nearest to me and. pulled the trigger before they had a chance to get scared. Jewhiz! how that spool did spin while the wire was unwinding. The ducks flew away, frightened by the noise of the gun, but I had just 150 ducks, all strung by their heads on that wire. The bullet had gone through their heads, dragging the wire with it, and it took eyes every time excepting one; it took the tail of that duck just as he raised from the water. The bullet would have caught more ducks only the spool got caught before the wire was all unwound and stopped it. I believe if I had another cartridge and another spool of—” The slim man found himself talking to the stove. The rest had fled, and none but he remained.— Peck's Sun.

A Story About Whistler.

“A friend of mine,” said my infoi-m----ant, “was wandering through a street in London one rainy, foggy night about 11 o’clock, in doubt as to whether he should go to the club for a rubber at whist, or to go home. ‘What! is that you ? Why, how are you, my dear fellow '?’ He turned and there was Whistler, just as wet as he. ‘This is good luck,’ said the artist; ‘come home with me and have some beer and a cracker.' ” So off they went to Whistler’s house, in the suburbs somewhere, through the rain and darkness. Once there the house was as black as the night. Whistler rang the bell but there was no reply. He rang again and still harder, but apparently he might as well have tried to wake the dead. There wasn’t a sign of life in the house. Well, for nearly half an hour those two men stood at the door and tried in vain to get into the house, Whistler, I am afraid, swearing at the stupidity of his Servants, while the vision of a quiet chat over the beer and crackers gradually began to fade from my friend’s mind. “Finally, however, the door opened a few inches and the two men were soon conducted in a very mysterious manner through the hall and a few rooms, not a ray of light meanwhile being visible. Here Whistler left his guest for a few moments, and in his absence, lo! the whole house suddenly blazed with lights. The doors between the apartments were simultaneously thrown open, and a gorgeous scene presented itself. In the elegant diniDg hall was a table loaded with all the delicacies of the season, and set off with the rarest of old chin a, and glass in exquisite shapes and designs. Wines were there in abundance; and in their proper places were the butlers and servants, ready to do their bidding at this sumptuous repast. “This was Whistler’s' ‘lunch’ of crackers and cheese. ‘The whole affair,’ said my friend* ‘was one of Whistler’s strong conceits—his apparently accidental meeting with me (when he had probably been hunting for me for hours), his selection of midnight for such an escapade, his inability to get into his house (all arranged beforehand), and his surprise for me when I entered. No man bot Whistler would think of such a thing, and no one else would carry it out in such perfection as he. There was enough for twenty men on the table, and there we two sat ’till early morning, eating and talking of a thousand things.”—London letter. . No heart is empty of the humor of curiosity; the beggar being as attentivf in his station to an improvement oe knowledge as the Prino e.*—Osborn. Africa makes money showing her ivories. The export averages $3,300,000 worth a year.

HUMOR.

[From Carl Pretzel's Weekly.] Head winds—Blowing your nose. Grass widows are not always in clover. A finished artist mixes his colors with brains. A cool proceeding — An ice wagon making its rounds. If brevity is the soul of wit, there is a good deal of fun in a dude’s coattail. “One good turn deserves another,” as the tug-boat Captain said to the bridge tender. “Why are you so distant?” said a tiampto the beafsteak in the restaurant window. “Man wants but little here below,” but every publisher wants his .full subscription price. Any young man who aspires to be a humorist is advised to drink sarsaparilla. It is good for the humor. “What grows up must grow down,” said a dear father as he mournfully observed his young hopeful struggling with a delicate mustache. A young lady don’t lack much of making a gun out of herself when she powders her face,sets her cap, goes to a ball and snaps at the dudes. [From th« Norristown Herald.] , Fans have existed for at least 3,000 years, or representations of these wfndpersuaders have been discovered on-the tombs of Thebes. The friends of the deceased evidently knew in which direction the departed were going, and put on their tombstones pictures of the articles they most needed in the other world. It is suspected that the fan itself was interred with the remains. A Tennessee girl who has gray eyes, makes them appear blue and bright “by wearing a hat lined with dark blue velvet and eating lumps of sugar on which has been dropped a little cologne.” A Tennessee man who has gray eyes can moke them appear black and blue by simply calling Slugger Sullivan a liar and a horse-thief. The editor wrote “Bonny Kate Field is on her travels through the exchanges once more,” and it came out in the paper “Boney Kate,” etc. The editor js paying 10 cents apiece for all the copies of that issue, for the purpose of destroying them, and if the entire edition cannot be secured he says he will go to Alaska until the affair “blows ever.” When a young man becomes impatient waiting half an hour for his girl, who left the room with the remark that she would “be ready - in two minutes,” he should not manifest his uneasiness, but let his mind revert to the stock of patience exhibited by the physician who counted the holes or cells in the human lungs and discovered that the whole number was 174,000,000. [From the Burlington Hawkeye.] Young Fastboy says the first girl he ever waltzed with was all the whirled to him. The cable announces as important news the fact that “Mr. Slingsby Bethel, an official of the House of Lords, is coming to America to visit his sons, who live in the United States.” “We know a man in Missouri named Snagsby Chancel; wonder if he could be one of Slingsby’s boys.” \ You will please observe one thing about railway lunch counters: The man who growls the most also eats the most, and the fellow who jokes about the indestructible sandwiches, thinks he is in hard luck if he doesn’t get away with half a dozen before the gong strikes. The pastor of a church in New Milford, Ct.,"has been compelled to resign, because he stole his sermons. Oh, foolish congregation, to kick when he stole better ones than he could write. We have heard some parsons for whom we gladly would have stolen some sermons, on condition that they never would preach their own.

A Norwegian Sea-Dog.

He was a wild-looking fellow, our pilot, and an artist in search of character sketches would have greeted his appearance with delight. A tall, thin body, clad in worn, patched clothes, that were all too light and thin for seafaring work, even in summer time. Above the body a gaunt and almost haggard face, that was scarred with deep lines in the upper part and covered with a tangled bed of tow-like hair in the lower portion, as liungrylooking, half-clothed a specimen of humanity as it would be easy to pick up, even upon the coast of Norway. Yet he had a bright, keen eye, a steady hand at the tiller, and the way in which he ejaculated the few orders he had to give ah owed that knowledge of hi* work had not been starved or frozen out of him. He would, I am sure, have been a first-rate man for a vessel in distress, from the prompt and efficient manner in which he repaired his own deficiencies. His work had not been finished half an hour before the forecastle was literally astounded at the capacity for stowing away provisions that he displayed. The style in which he could gulp down half a tumbler of rum was as refreshing to a looker-on as the liquor evidently was to himself, and as he went over the ship’s side, buttoning up an old pilot-coat that had been found for his benefit, it was evident that his poverty and not his will compelled him to put up with scanty raiment. It is better to be a pilot in Sweden than in Norway, to judge from waist measurement and outer clothing.

No Use Trying.

It’s no use trying to make a Christian of an Indian. It can’t be done. Now, here is Lola Scott, the converted Creek. He says that fifty years ago he used to paint himself up, and indulge in War dances, and go out on the war-path and scalp pale-faces and other hostiles, and was, to all intents and purposes, a bold, bad Indian, be the same more or less. Then he was converted, joined the church, took off his war-paint and feathers, buried the tomahawk, and. what has he done since then? Sold 300 sewing machines, and keeps on selling them! Give him back his bonarrera again.—Jß. J. Burdette.