Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 July 1887 — Page 6

BALOA XL SOL. BT FILED LUCCA SQUIEBS. "If the sun c&re to rise, let him rise. And if not let him ever lie hid; For the light from my lady-love’s eyes Shines forth as the sun never did.** If the moon care to shine, let her shine, But her glimmer is duller by for Than a dream of a face which is mine— Of a face which beams bright as a star 1 If the forest glades glitter in light. If their song-birds stop singing to call; I would heed them no longer, in might They’re surpassed by my lady-love talL If the world care to charm, let it try— Let its dreams come again unto me; And, too soon, will it And that not I, But itself, will, enthralled, worship thee 1 *“ Saiga el Sol, si ha de salir, Y si no, que nunca saiga; Que para alumbrarue a mi, La luz de tus ojos baata.”

“BETSY GAMP'S WEDDIN.”

BY M. J. ROY.

“Fax up, old woman, fix up, put on yer best bib and tucker, fur we’re goin to a shake down ter night.” “Ole man, shet up, yer must be crazy.” “No, I’m not, its nigh onto thirty yeers since I shook my foot, but its got ter trip it ter night, even es it does make my jints crack.” “What ye mean, Jonathan?” “I mean that thars goin’ to be a shake down at Pete Stumps.” And the old man waved his hat over his head while he waltzed about the kitchen. Aunt Tilda Knucklebone sat with a pan of apples on her lap, gazing at her husband in astonishment, while the tea-pot boiled and hissed on the stove. os*'"? “I’m goin’ ter be thar an’ my foot, the fust time in thirty yeers,” added Uncle Jonathan, continuing to waltz about the kitchen. “Jonathan Knucklebone, hev ye lost yer senses?” “No.” “Set down then an’ tell me what yer mean.” Uncle Johnathan was soon out of breath, and gladly enough threw himself into a kitchen chair. “Well, Tilda—” “Well, Jonathan, what d’yer mean?” “Thar’s goin’ ter be a shake-down at Pete Stumps, all on account o’ some one cornin’ back from Californy, an’ yer can’t guess who it is?” “No, o’ course not; who is it?” “Hamp Flatmarsh.” “Who’s he?” “What! don’t yer remember Hamp, the forty-niner, who went away so long ago?” “ ’Pears to mo like I do remember him a little, said Aunt Tilda, resuming the paring of her apples. “O' course ye remember Hamp. Why, he war a leetle boy when we war sparkin’.” “Yes, I remember him now.” “Wall, we ll go to the shake down, fur it's given in honor o’ him.” “But ye furgit, Jonathan; we both belong to the church now,” “Oh, I don’t keer if we do. The Bible say« tbar’s a time to dance, an’ that time’s when Hamp Flatmarsh comes home.” “Jonathan, I don’t believe we ought to go," said Aunt Tilda, yet evincing in her tone just the least inclination to yield. “Yer don’t? Well, I do. Hamp’s come home artor bein’ gone nigh onto twenty yeers, an’ well go; course we will, ole woman, meetin’ or no meetin’; so, fix up, put on yer best bib an’ tucker. Why, I knowed Hamp ever since he war knee high. He's sot on my lap many a time.” “Who all’s goin’ to be thar?” “Oh, everybody. Thar’s the Moores, the Perkinses, the Williamses, the Snyders, Langs, Browns, Smiths, Pinkertons, Allens, Noddingtons, Applegates, Pendergasts, Mitchells, Thrashers, Hamiltons, Eckertons, and Betsy Gamp the school marm.”

“Is Betsv Gamp goin’?” “Yes.” “Sartin' Bure.” “Dead sartin’. Little Alph Lowe overheard Ben Hamilton tell Nick Ahead that Sam Snyder hed heerd her say she was goin', so tbar can’t be any doubt av it.” “Why Jonathan, I declar ye've put me all in a flutter.” “O’ course; git ready, we’re goin’.” “Will our children be thar?” “O’ course, Tom, Sally, Dave, and Ned all axed ” “Well, Jonathan, we’d look like two old fools a dancin’ afore our grown up children.” “We needn’t dance es we don’t want to. Yer see thar’s goin’ ter be a big supper like a barbrecue. Pete’s axed the whole country round, so they kin all git ter see Hamp at onct.” “Are ye sure Betsy’s goin’?” “Course she is.” “Didn’t she use ter know Hamp?” “Guess she did, ole woman, She was a purty leetle gal o’ sixteen when he went away in forty-nine.” “Pore Betsy. She’s a good gal,” said Aunt Tilda, peeling apples vigorously, as if she was in a hurry to get dinner ready. “Yes, Betsy is a tine gal. She’s teachin’ our skule nigh on ter twelve years now, an’ es thars a lady in all Stun Circle neighborhood it’s Betsy Gamp. Guess she’s authority on everything.” “Say, Jonathan, don’t it seem kinder strange ter you that Betsy never got married?” “Yes, a leetle.” “An’ she’s had so many good chances, too. Thar was A 1 Bailes was a good ketch, an : she let him go by; then Phil Nichols war next, but he tuk to drink, and no gal as sensible as Betsy’d ever marry a man wot drinks. Then sence she’s been on the old maid list, Dekin Smart, whose w r ife died, ’s a most ded artcr her.” “Wall, ole woman, I spose she don’t want ter marry. I guess that’s all thar is about it.” “She's a good gal an’ could get anybody she wanted.” Aunt Tilda had now completed peeling her apples, and proceeded to prepare the dinner. Evening came, and all the country was in a bustle. It seemed as if the entire neighborhood had suddenly concluded to go to Pete Stump’s. The large, roomy, old-fashioned country house of Pete Stump, with its heavy oak doors aud solid oak floors and broad fire -places, was crowded to its utmost capacity. To use Uncle Jonathan’s expression, everybody was there. “Come in, come in, how dy do? This is Hamp Platmarsb. I guess ye know him though; don’t look as es he’d changed much,” said Peter Stump who stood at the front door. At his side was a tall, broadshouldered man, with heavy mustache, and

face bronzed by long exposure to wind and weather. He was probably forty years of age, liis hair once dark was now streaked with gray, and the heavy mustache was also growing a little frosty with time. Many of the old people in the neighborhood, who had known Hamp Flatmarsh as a quick, impulsive youth, now looked to see if there were any familiar features about his face. “Yes, he is jist the same,” they all declared, “ixcept that dark Bear in his cheek where he got the Injan arrer,” put in old Sally Flint. “Oh, Hamp, I’m so glad ter see ye back agin!” said Uncle Jonathan Knucklebone, grasping his hand. “It’s been ages an’ ages ago since yer left here a young man. Ye war workm’ fur me then, 1 rcckin ye remember it. We use ter work all day, an’ hunt coons at night.” “Ye bet. I remember it, ole hoss,” said Hamp with that pecnliur Western dialect which sounds so harsh to cultured ears. “Ye left so sudding, Hamp. What made yer do it? I went ter bed expectin’ yer back next momin’ an’ lo an’ behold, yer did’nt come, an’ 1 found out arterward that ye’d pnt out fnr Californy.” “Y’es, went sudden.” * “Struck it rich, I hear?” “Purty good lead.” “Glad ter hear it. I want ter see re, an’ talk with ye over it all after awhile, when I get time.” “I’ll do it, ole hoss.” He had always been a very quiet man, and it was not strange that he should seem so silent ou this evening. “Say, Jonathan, ar’ the boys lookin arter yer horses?” asked Mr. Stump. “Yes, Pete; they’ve got ’bout all they kin do, though, fur thar’s ’bout twenty or thirty teams thar ter look arter, an’ more a-epmm’." The rbads seemed alive with horsemen and people in wagons, all coming to Pete Stump’s. “Tilda, he looks kinder sad, don’t he?” said Jonathan, as he sat by his wife in the big sitting-room, watching the face of the man who had left the neighborhood a pauper so many years ago and returned a millionaire. “ ’Pears t’ me he looks kinder disappointed like,” said Aunt Tilda, gazing at the face for a long time through her glasses. “Disappointed—why should he be disappointed, ole woman; don’t ye know he’s a millionaire now? He’s got all the money he kin possibly want, an’ more’n he’d ever spend. Guess he kin enjoy himself some now.” “But look at him. He sighs, Jonathan, and looks about. Oh, Jonathan, money can’t allers make people happy.” “I guess it’d make me a most pow’ful happy jist now.” At this moment supper was announced, and the older folks wt-re hurried off to the great old-fashioned country dining-room, where the table fairly groaned beneath its load of good things. Country delicacies are always nicer and fresher than can be found anywhere in city hotels. The vegetables grow in their season and have all the juice and flavor nature intended —have not the stale, flat taste of premature hot-house development of the wilted vegetables found in cities. Uncle Jonathan was placed at the head of the table, so he could carve the turkey, his wife on his right, and Hamp Flatmarsh, whom they insisted should eat at the first table, on nis left. Musicians were scraping their violins, getting ready for the “shake down” as soon as supper should be over. The younger people, who were to come in at the second table, were in the great sitting-room chatting and laughing as only youngsters can. “I say, Tilda, hev ye seen anything o’ Betsy this evenin’?” Uncle Jonathan (ißkodt “Who? Wot did ye say?” asked the returned Californian, starting up as if from a reverie. “Betsy Gamp; she was to a been here.” “She was?” “Yes, heerd she war cornin’.” “She’ll be here yit,” put in Aunt Tilda. “D’ye reckon she will? D’ye reckon she will, Aunt Tilda?” There was a depth of pathetic eagerness about the question which greatly intensified the fire in the dark gray eyes. “Oh, yes, she’ll come, I'll be bound.” Then Hamp seemed to. recover his selfpossession, and sank into hi 3 usual reserved manner. If some powerful emotions were raging within that heart, they were bidden by an armor of steel, and were known only to himself. The California millionaire finished his supper, and then went into the sittingroom, where he took his broad-brimmed white hat from the peg on the wall, and drawing it low over his eyes, sat down, apparently oblivious to all his surroundings. A little bustle at the door announced a new arrival, and some one said: “She’s come at last.” The forty-niner looked up from under his broad bum and his eye instantly blazed with a new light. He started to his feet—but checked himself as he remembered where he was, and sat down again. The new arrival was a little woman with large blue eyes and a profusion of golden hair. She was past thirty, and the combined influence of time and care had left some wrinkles on her face, though there was no little beauty remaining. This was Betsy Gamp, the “neighborhood schoolmarm. ” Betsy was hurried out to supper, while the very man in whose honor the entertainment was given sat swearing at his illfortune. She returned and was then presented to him. “Betsy? Course I know her,’’cried Hamp, starting up and seizing one small hand in his. “Why, it seems an age since I sot eyes on her, but I’d know ’er yit ’mong a million. ” Betsy’s pale face turned very red, and her eyes drooped, while Hamp still held her hand. The music now struck up, and the floor was cleared for dancing. “Come, Betsy; it’s been a long time since you au’ me tuk a trot tergether; let’s hev a tramp wi’ the rest.” “Oh, Hamp! I belong td church now,’’she said softly; “besides, I teach the school.” “It’ll be all right” „Do you think it will?” “Know it.” They were in the “first set,” and when it was over Hamp, who seemed suddenly inspired with new life, led his flushed partner to a set in the very farthest comer of the room. “Betsy,” he whispered in his coarse Pacific slope dialect, “it’s been a long time since I sot eyes on ye, but I never forgot ye, nor that Sunday evening when I left ye on the hill.” “Hamp, what made you go so sudden?” she asked.

He tried to speak, but his throat seemed to clog up despite himself. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, kicked his heavy mining boots on the floor, and drew his broad-brimmed hat lower down over his eyes. At last he said: “Betsy, I guess I war a dot-rotted fool. Fact is, I was mad. Did ye mean it?” “What?” she asked. “ What yer said ’boat Newt Bowman. ” “I don’t remember now what I did say.” “Don’t yer know I axed about goin’ with ye ter camp-meetin' on ther next Wednesday, an’ you said maybe ye’d go with Newt Bowman.” “Oh, Hamp, I only said that to tease you.” “War that all?" “It was.” “Well, it a most broke me up. an’ I swore I’d leave an’ never come back, an’ I did go to Californy. It’s been a long time, Betsy ” Then a silence fell npon both, and they appeared to not see the crowded room and gay young dancers. The music was drowned with thought, and they had gone back ever so many years to that sunny afternoon when they were young and parted on the hillside. It had been a long and bitter struggle, and neither had conquered. He was now rich and could have chosen a wife, despite his lack of culture, from among the handsomest women in the country, but somehow this patient little woman seemed to possess a spell over him which no other being did. He was first to break the silence. “Betsv,” he said, “what become o’ Newt?”* “He married Kitty Winters long ago. Their oldest girl was married last week.” “Then ve didn’t mean it?” “What:” “Ye didn’t like Newt ” “He was a good friend.” “Oh, dad blast it, yer know what I mean —yer din’t love him?” “No.” “I was a fool, then; but maybe it’s not too late to mend vit. Betsy, are you willin’?” “What do you mean?” she asked, trembling a little, while her face was radiant with a flame of glory. “Yer be my wife. Now’, let me know, an’ settle it once furever. I axed ye that question nigh on to twenty years ago. I want the answer to-night, or I’ll leave, never to come back.” Betsy knew the danger of attempting to put him off', and said: “Yes, Hamp, I love yon, have loved you all these long years, and will never marry another.” “Ye loved me then did ye?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t ye say so w r hen I axed ye?” “Oh, it was so pleasant to coquet a little, you know, and see you get mad.” “Well, gal, don’t rile me again, fur it takes nigh on to twenty years fur me to cool off.” “I will not answer you so any more, Hamp,” she said, trembling with joy. “I am older now, and all such girlish folly is past.” “Will ye be my wife?” he again asked. “Yes.” “To-night?” “Oh, it’s too soon.” “No; it’s now or never. Some un’ said Uncle Jonathan Knucklebone was a Squire, and he’ll tie the knot fur us right now. What yer say? I kin call my hoss and leave in ten seckinds.” Betsy’s face turned deathly pale. She knew it would not do to trifle with her lover, whom until within the last few minutes she had thought lost, and after a brief struggle ehe said: “Yes.” “Then wait till this set’s over, an’ it’ll be done. It won’t take more'n two or three minits. ” Squire Knucklebone was at this moment swinging about, in the giddy maze of a quadrille, pretty Polly Perkins, as gay as a boy of eighteen. To Hamp, who could not brook delay, it seemed as if the quadrille was never to end.

“First four for’d back agin, alia man left, balance all, all promenade, swing verpardner, all sas-shay;” while to the lively tune of the squeaky old fiddle came the tramping of f et. Uncle Jonathan’s white head and slightly bent form could be seen among the others, whirling and flitting about. When the “set” was over, and he led his youthful partner in the dance to her seat, the old Squire was almost out of breath. “Hold on thar, Square,” said Hamp Flatmarsh, leading the blushing Betsy forward. “Afore ye sot down thar’s a leetle job 1 want yer to de, while we’re all in the notion. Nigh onto twenty y’ars ago this gal an’ me hed about come ter the conclusion we’d trot in double harness; but by a leetle misunderstandin’ the lead proved a blind, an’ I vamosed to prospect elsewhar. We’ve got it all fixed up now, an’ es ye’ll jest say a few words to make us partners fur life I’ll be much obleeged ter ye, and gin ye and Aunt Tilda a present o’ a thousand dollars apiece.” A shout went up from everybody, and it was several moments before Uncle Jonathan could sufficiently recover his composure to command the peace. Order was at last restored, and then the Squire, panting :rom his late exertions, said: “Jine yer right hands.” They did so, and in a few moments the ceremony was completed. “Now, if I hed’nt a ben sich a dodrotted fool this'd a been done twenty y’ars ago,” said Hamp. “Thet’s so. Uncle Jonathan, but ten millions won’t buy back them twenty y’ars o’ pleasure an’ happiness I might a had wi’ the best woman on airth.” Betsy, who had been standing like one stupefied ever since her marriage, at this threw her arms around her husband's neck and burst into tears of joy. “Thar, then; thar, then, gal; don’t take on any more, ur I’m sich a dod-blasted fool I’ll slop over, too. I wouldn’t giv ye fur all the mines in the Bockies; but lei’s not stop the dance.” The dance went on, and when the guests began to go home early in the morning they all took leave of the bride and groom. Aunt Tilda was the happiest of all, and as she kissed the pretty bride she said: “I’ve witnessed somethin’ t’night that I begin ter fear I’d never see.” “What?” the blushing bride asked. “Betsy Gamp’s weddm’.” It is remarkable how rnnch more religious a person can be in a well-fitting dress and a love of a bonnet than in a lot of dowdy old duds.— Exchange. Truth loses half of its virtue when told with an effort.— Arkansan Traveler,

CARL DUNDER.

A Fairy Story After the German. Yell, shildren. maype you like to bear me talk some more (says Carl Dander in Detroit Free Press). I vhas oanly an oldt Dutchmans, but if I do you some goot dot vhas all right. I guess I tell you aboudt some badt bov—a feller who vhas named Shacob Hornberger, and who lif py dot Black Forest in Shermany. Vhas I tell you happened so long ago dot my great grandfather vhas a leedle poy. I has some

“I like to Skin him alife.”

peoples tell me it vhas a fairy story, but I doan know. Yhell, now to pegin: Vonce upon some times a poy named Sbacob Hornberger lif py der Black Forest mit his parents. Dot poy doan lie und shteal, but he vhas cruel in his rnindt. If he sees some odder leedle poy he likes to hit him mit a club, und if he sees some leedle girl he like to pinch her und make her yell so loud as a cannoD. Dot vas a pad preenciples, children. If you doan have some mercy und sympathy for odder people you vhill some day shtand oop on der gallows to be bung. Yhell, to proceed some more, dot poy Shacob vhas tickled all oafer when he has some shance to be cruel mit a dumb brute. It vhas his delight to throw stones at some dogs, hunt down cats, und kill off der innocent birds. If be doan’ be cruel to something during der way he doan’ shleep goot at night. Lots of peoples talk to him und gif him goot advice, but Shacob vhas no petter. Vhen a poy doan' heed der words of his parents und friends it vhas badt for him—werry badt. He vhas on der plank roadt to destruction, und he dies some awful death.

Vhell, one day Shacob finds a rabbit mit two proken legs, und be vhas nefer so tickled pefore. It vhas a shance to pe cruel, und he takes oudt his knife to torture dot poor rabbit. A leedle oldt man mit a bump on his pack und one white eyebrow comes oudt of der woods shus den und says: “Vhas you, do, eh, Shacob? You doan’ be cruel to dot poor rabbit, I hope?” “I like to skin him alife!” says Shacob. “But if you touch him you shall be punishod.” Und now, shildren, vhas you suppose dot poy didt? He jabs dot knife into dot rabbit's eyes und laughs ha! ha! ha! to hear him cry oudt midt pain. Howefer, he hadt no sooner done dot dander old man makes two signs like dot und says: “I turn dot poy into a lean, blind wolf, und I bid him go off mit der Black Forest. Dot rabbit vhas all right again!” Und, shildren, shust like you lif, Shacob pecomes a plind wolf, mit all his ribs plain to be seen, und dot rabbit goes scampering off on four legs, mit bis eyes as goot as easer. Dot wolf howls mit hunger und pain, und vhile he runs he knocks himself oafer lots of times und vhas pacfly used oop. If he can’t see he can’t catch something to eat, und in a little time he goes deadt. If you see some rabbit, shildren, you vliill notice how crooked his hindt legs vhas. Dot vhas pecause dey vhas proken. You notice pome specs in his eyes. Dot vhas pecause he vhas cured so queek of bis plindness. Dot vhas my story, leedle ones, und I like you to remember it. Der poy who likes to gif pain to some helpless animal vhill come oop to some badt man. It vhas petter dot oar hearts vhas always full of pitty und mercy, und dot we vhas always ready mit charity for der unfortunate.

Narcotic Drugs.

The Medical and Surgical Exporter wants more laws to prohibit the indiscriminate traffic in narcotic drugs. It asks: “How many of the feebleminded and idiotic children that cost the public thousands of dollars annually to maintain are the logical results of the use of narcotics? God only knoAvs, but man may feel sure that the number is very great. In the name of humanity, as well as for the interests of political economy, we emphatically say that this diabolical traffic must be restricted, and these would-be moral and physical suicides must be restrained from their morbid and damning propensities.” The object and motive thus stated is good, beyond doubt, but the success or utility of prohibitory or restrictive laws remains a matter of grave question for doubt.— Dr. Fcote's Health Monthly.

Your Ton of Coal.

Someone has thus figured on the ingredients of a ton of coal. Besides gas, a ton of coal "will .-yield 1,500 pounds of coke, 20 gallons of ammonia water and 140 pounds of coal tar. Destructive distillation of the coal tar gives 09.0 pounds of pitch, 17 pornds of creosote, ll pounds of heavy o Is, 9.5 pounds of naphtha yellow, n. 3 pounds of naphthaline, 4.70 pounds of naphthol, 2.25 pounds of alizarine, 2.4 pounds of solvent naphtha, 1.5 pounds if phenol, 1.2 pounds of aurine, 1.1 pounds of analine, 0.77 pound of toludine, 0.46 pound of anthracine and 0.9 pound of toluene. The steam-power of Great Britain is estimated to perform the work of more than 400,000,000 able bodied men —which must nearly represent the labor capacity of the entire human race without the aid of machinery.

HUMOR.

ScoGESTiON'for it back. Oxe acre enough—especially if it be a tender corn. Ox the edge of dis-pair—about to become divorced. A vessel sailing from Cork is incomplete without a Cork’s-crew. I'D rather be the man to find A fault in most of what I see, Than have that vacant, vapid mind Of satisfied insanity. — Siftings. Jay Gould has purchased a 10,000,acre snake farm near St. Louis. It won’t be long until he will convert it into a “water”-snake farm.— Newman Independent. “Hebe, Johnnie, what do you mean by taking Willie’s cake away from him? Didn't you have a piece for yourself?” “Yes, but you told me I always ought to take my little brother’s part.” Corxs ai-e not always o i the feet, as all chiropodists advertise that they have “removed them from several crowned heads.” You always notice a wellcorned maa can’t stand on his feet, though. “Why, Hans, you have the most feminine face I have ever seen on a maa,” said a traveler to a Dutch hotelkeeper. “Oh, var, I know the reason for that,” was the reply; “mine mudder was a woman. ” “We don’t see you very qften at the club, Charley.” “No; the fact is I’m engaged, and can’t call an evening my own.” “Goingto leave the club, then?” “O, no; I shall be married in April, and then you may look for me at least three times a week.” — Philadelphia Call. Lily (secretary of the cooking class) —Now, girls, we’ve learned nine cakes, two kinds of angel food, and seven pies. What next? Busie (engaged)—Dick’s father says I must learn to bake bread. Indignant chorus —Bread? Absurd! What are bakers for?— Pittsburg Built tin. Wife —Tohn, dear, I notice that your brother James never makes a friendly call upon us unless he is intoxicated. Husband—No, my dear, he doesn’t. James reminds me of the moon. W.—Reminds you of the moon? H.—Yes, dear; he never gets round till he’s full. “How silly you look in this picture,” said an Oakland belle, on viewing a photograph presented by a gentleman who intended to absorb her name. “Do I, Sarah? I tried to smile and look sweet when it was taken.” “Smile! If that’s the way you look when you ‘smile,’ I should certaihlyjoin the prohibitionists if I were you.”— SanFrancisto Wasp. James Russell Lowell says that the men of Shakspeare’s day were fortunate in being able to gather their language with the dew upon it. From what we have heard of the gatherings at the Mermaid Tavern, at that time, we should judge that it was saturated with what the Irishman calls “mountain dew.”— Boston Gazette. A territorial editor says in liis paper: “Yesterday we were again married. It will be remembered that both of our former wives eloped with the foreman of the office. To avoid any future inconvenience of the kind we have this time married a lady who is herself a compositor, and she will set the type while we hustle for the ducks who still owe on subscription.”— Dakota Bell. “Well, good-by,” said the Boston lady to Mrs. Parvenu, at the seaside hotel. “I’ve just time to give the head waiter his perquisite before I go.” “I dou’t know, ” said Mrs. Parvenu, musugly, “why she gives him a perquisite. I wonder if that’s any better than a five-dollar bill. Laura,” she said, turning to her daughter, “what’s a perquisite, any way.” THE AMATEUR CARVER. A bachelor tried to carve a goose, In vain! He could not find a thigh-bone loose, ’Twas plain; Be stuck a fork in the creature’s breast. And gravy spurted over his vest, The guests all smiled like seraph’s blest Again. The carver’s face was red and white, Indeed ; He sawed away, if that he might Succeed; His collar parted with a snap, His coat-tail flapped with many a flap, The goose slid into the hostess' lap With speed. —Philadelphia News.

Lawyer’s First Book.

Once, while in an English village, Ben Jonson saw a number of poir people weeping over a newly made grave. On asking a woman the cause of their grief, she exclaimed: “Oh, sir, we have lost our precious lawyer, Justice Bandall! He kept us all in peac<e, and always was so good as to keep ns from going to law—the best man that ever lived!” “Well,” said old Ben, “I will send you an epitaph to write upon his tomb.” He sent the following lines: “God -wo. ks wonders now and then; Here lies a lawyer—an honest man.” Jonson’s lines would not have been so satirical had all lawyers been educated as Macklin, an actor, proposed to train his son, whom he designed for the law, “What book, sir,” said the veteran actor to a friend, “do you think I made him begin with? Why, sir, the Bible—the Holy Bible.” “The Bible for a lawyer!” exclaimed the friend. “Yes, sir; the properest and most scientific book for an honest lawyer, as there you will find the foundation of all law as well as of all morality.”— Youth’s Companion. Sam Jones says: “I don’t know where hell is. 1 don’t want to know, for I ain’t headin’ that way. I’m going to let them fellers as are goin’ thar find out.” White hairs are like the sea foam which caps the waves after a storm*