Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 16 June 1883 — Page 11

The Stricken Monarch. The ragged tlrs, knee-deep in snow, Standshivering by tlie frozen laice; In eddying gusts, that, moaning low, Their mists of icy crystal shake On drift-hid stream and thoroughfare. And strew them in the wild beasts’ lair And down the gorge and through the brake. And here the monarch of the wood With drooping antlers, piercing eye. That tell of soar and want of food, Hides where no living thing is nigh; For in this deeply-di lftodsnov*, The proud beast can no farther go, And he must rest or he must die. But hark! his quick ears catch the sound The striding hunter’s snow shoe makes. He springs, but with each mighty bound The treacherous crust beneath him breaks; And plunging in liis icy bath, He rages with despair and wraith, His moist breath flying in frozen flakes. He yields at length and lower aud lower, Sinks in his white torn shroud to die, Till from that stealthy tread once more His startled muscles strive to fly, Hut only quiver to the blow, The murderer’s ooward thrust, and low; For joy some hungry half-breeds cry. —B. 8. Parker. The half breed banters on the border lands dividing Maine from the Province of Quebec are said to have Slaughtered large immbvra of deer, moose and caribou daring the present winter the animals falling an easy prey to them on seconnt of the deep, crusted ■now, which rendered escape from pursuit impossible. Sukkbbooke, June 1883. Etude Kealiste. A baby’s feat, like sea-shells pink, Might tempt, should heaven nee meet, An angel’s lips to kies, we think, A baby’s feet. Like rose-hued sun-flowers toward the heat, They stretch and spread and wink Their ten sort buds that part and meet. No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet As shine on life’s untrodden brink A baby’s feet. 11. A baby’s hands, like rosebuds furled Whenoe yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurlefl, A baby’s hands. Then fast as warriors grip their brands When battle’s bolt is hurled. They close, clenched hard like tightened hands. No rosebuds ret by dawn impearled Match, evert in loveliest lands. The sweetest flowers in all the world— A baby’s bauds. 111. A baby’s eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lip learn word or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby’s eyes. Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows our and in, Sees perfeot in them Paradise. Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt wi: Inn A baby’s eyes. —Algernon C. Swinburne. “At Home.” When I was dead my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented bouse; I passed the doer, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange hough*. From hand to hand they pushed the wine; They sucked the pulp of plum and peaoh, They sang, they jested aud they laughed, For each was loved by each. I listened to their honest shout; Bald one: ‘‘To-morrow we shall be Plodding along thw featureless sands And coasting miles and miles of sea.” Sa*d one: “Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie sear.” Said one: “To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet.” To morrow! said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way. To morrow! cried they, one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full of blessed noon, f, only I, had passed away. To-morrow and to-day, they cried; I was of yesterday. I shivered comfortless, but cast N<* ohlll across the tablecloth; I, all forgotten, shivered, sad To stay and yet to part so loth. I passed from the familiar room, I whom from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day. * —Christina Rosttti. To an Absent Daughter. W. A. Oroffut in “A Midsummer Lark.” Mr absent daughter, gentle, geutle maid, Your life doth never fade! O, everywhere I see your blue eyes shine And on my heart in healing or command, I feel the pressure of your small, warm hand That slipped ar dawn utmost without a sign, Bo softly out of mine. The birds nil sing or you, my darling one; Your day was just begun, But you lmd leurned to love all things that grew; And when ( linger by the streamlet’s side Where weed and hush to you were glorified, The violet looks up as if it knew Aud talks to me of you, The lily dreams of you. The pensive roso Reveals von where it grows In purple trance above the waterfall: The fragrant fern rejoices by the pond. Betting your dear face hi its featuery Irond. The winds blow chili, but sounding over all I hear your sweet voloo call. Mr gentle daughter! With us you have stayed. Your life dotn never fade! O, evermore I see vour blue eyes shine, In subtle moods I cannot understand, I feel the fluttering of your tender hand That slipped at dawn, almost a sign, Bo softly out of mine. The Brown Earth. Her soft and unobtrusive hue That every color inelteth to, O honest, restfu', velvet brown. Bo grateful to tlie tired breast When wearied souls may sit them down Beside the road of life to rest— Bit down with eyes held to the brown, Sweet face of earth; forgetting all That is, that was, that may befall. I love the modest, human hue Os earth all earth ta tending to; The dusk-brown dawn, the twilight brown; The browu-faced seasons passing through The harvest fields with gathered gown: The brown earth waiting for us all. The clay of earth that gave us birth, The warm brown breast of mother earth; Her sad face fulling like a pall. —Joaquin Millor, in the Indopeuiisnt. Negro Camp-Meeting Bong. Ole Bister Mary drapped her pride, An’ all at once got sanctified, Au' when site fell uown *or ter pray Bbe tuok up wings an’ flow away. O, take off your coat, po’ sinner man. An’ prey ter de Lawd as fas’ as yer can. Ole Bi*ter Mary, when she riz. Shuck her leg at the rheumatiz. An’ flew away ober de turnip patch On her way to lift de heabenly intoh. Ob, git on de groun’, po’ sinner man, An’ make a move tor Jiue de ban’. Ole Brnder Ike was full ob sin. An’ at de Lawd would stan’ an’ grin, Silt the dehil grabbed him with a hook, n’ down below wld him he took. Oh, roll in de aan’,winful chile, An' take from your soul de debit's bile. —Arkanaaw Traveler. •Humanity’s great hope for the future Is alone to be realized lu Improved conditions of matrimony. What a profound obligation does this faot Involve! Those who reallzo the responsibility can hardly do better than tuke advice from Jflrs. Lydia E. Pinkham, whose wonderful remedies for the oure of all diseases peculiar to women are so Justly celebrated. Bend for pamfchlet

A HOUSE - HUNTER’S REPRIEVE. Miss Frank McCarthy in Harper’* Bazar. “Yes,” said mamma, ‘‘you’d better tell the Doctor, Betty, that we have concluded not to take his house for another year. It is a great blow to me, Betty. My pecuniary arrangements with the Doctor have been very advantageous; and strict economy in domestic matters is highly important with us just now. The little money we had when your papa died is sadly diminished; Fred’s education has cost so much, and it is so expensive to dress and educate Blanche suitably to her style and beauty. I had hoped—l was almost certain—” Here mamma began to cry. I felt very sorry for her. She suffered in her way as much as she made me suffer in mine. “We’ll get another house, mamma,” I said, hoping to ward off the topic that I knew' mamma wasdying to talk about; but nothing would do. “It’s not the house I’m dissatisfied with,” said my poor mother; it’s Dr. Steele, the owner of it, of whom I have cause to complain.” “I think you have misunderstood the Doctor’s old-fashioned politeness, mamma. It is always, perhaps, too pointed.” “Altogether too pointed, so far as your sister is concerned,” said mamma. “He as much as told me he was in love with her down at the beach last summer. Don’t you remember the day lie invited us all to go, an*l was so vexed because you would not leave the house with the new servants that he talked about it all the way down in the train, and appeared to be very sorry that your domestic duties were so engrossing? You must acknowledge, Betty, that he has been very kind to you.” “I do acknowledge it, very gratefully, indeed, mamma.” “And then,” continued mamma, “he got Fred that situation in the batik. “Why, no man could have been more pronounced in his attentions to the family of the young lady he professed to admire, and straws show which way the wind blows; but it would not be so humiliating if he had not come right out and told me that he cared for her. A man has no right—a man in his position—to lead a mother to believe that he is about to propose for her daughter’s hand, and then seem to forget all that he has said. I remember his very words, Betty. Your sister had started down to the water’s edge, and the Doctor sat upon the seat beside me, following her with his eyes and poking his cane into the sand. ‘Madam,’ said he. speaking very deliberately, as a man does when he has made up his mind, ‘I must tell you that I had a motive in asking you and vour daughters to share my holiday at the beach. lam very much interested in your daughter.’ And here Blanche came strolling back again, looking so lovely that I thought the best tiling I could do would be to leave them together. I made an excuse to go back to the hotel, and supposed that when I returned all would be settled, but from that day to this lie has never opened the subject again either to Blanche or to me. Your sister is young and thoughtless, and accepts his attentions as she does those of everybody by whom she is admired, but a parent is bound to look at the matter in a more serious light.” “Blanche dori’t care a fig for him, mam ma.” I said, “She would try to care for him if he offerred himself,” said mamma. “She has owned to me that she might be brought to view the matter in a favorable light.” “Oh, mamma,” I said, jumping off my chnir in a heat of mortification and impatience, “do let’s get out of his house as soon as we can! I’ll tell him we’re going to move, and eo out house-hunting this very day.” “Yes, do, Betty.” said my mother; “and watch him—see if he is surprised and vexed. And Betty, my child, you have such a plain old-fashioned way, you seem so much better than you really are, and the Doctor and you have always been such good friends, he may confide to you—” ‘ Excuse me, mamma,” I said, running to the door. “I’m sure I hear the vegetable man, and I must see about luncheon before I go.” Away I ran down the stairs as fast as \ could go, and rapped upon the door of the Doctor’s study. He opened the door, and already had his hat in iiis hand and and his overcoat on his arm. He put both of them aside, and with gentle cordiality bade me come over to the open fire. “For the air is chill, Miss Betty,” he said, though we are getting on toward April. I believe—” “Yes,” I said, and rushed immediately into the subject In hand. “I will not detain you, Doctor, I must tell you that mamma has concluded to move. I am going out househunting to-day.” Mamma ought to have been there, for if ever surprise amounting to consternation was depicted anywhere, it was painted on the Doctor’s face at that moment. “House-hunting!” lie cried. “What the—the deuce would you do such an insane thing as that for? Move! What does vour mother want now? Papering? painting? kalsoniining? a hanging garden on the roof? a calcium light in the hall? a steam calliope in the parlor? Tell me what she wants, and if it’s possible to accomplish it without the aid of Aladdin’s lamp it shall be done.” How could I sav that she wanted him to marry my sister Blanche? It made me burn from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet to remember the conveisation between mamma and me. “You are very generous, Doctor,” I said, “but my mother wants to move, Don't you know that women are changeable sometimes, and get tired of one place?” “And the one party?” he rejoined—“the one old fossil who began to hope that he might settle down to certain surroundings and be happy? Are you one of those women, Miss Betty? Do you want to leave your landlord?” I knew that it was nothing but a generous pity tor my condition of mind and body that made him look upon me with such sweet comparison. He threw his gloves aside, and took both ray hands in his own. That was his unfortunate manner, his all too friendly way, so easily misunderstood, as I tried to persuade my mother. If it had been my beautiful sister instead of mv plain little self, it might have been thought that the consummation to mamma’s ambition was about to be reached. “You look already so tired!” he said. “Sit down here in the easy chair and tell me what I can do to save you from the awful fate of a house-hunter. Did you ever hear of Mynheer Von Ghlan, who every morning said,* ‘I am the richest merchant in Rotterdam?’ He came to grief, my little woman, from too much walking. Haven’t you cares enough upon your poor little shoulders? If your mother wlil move, whydon’tshe go herself upon this hunt that she desires?” “My mother is never quite well,” I said. “And your sister?” he said. “That would never do,” I replied, quickly; “she is too ” and here I hesitated. “To beautiful,” he said, with a wry grimace, “Yes,” I exclaimed, resolving to make one little struggle in mamma's behalf. ‘ Don't you think that my sister is beautiful, Dr. Steele?” “Yes,” he said with all the vehentenee that could be required of him; “too beautiful altogether, I wish she was as ugly as a stone fence.” A red flame leaped into his dark cheek. He was certainly agitated by some unwonted emotion. I thought, perhaps, lie loved her, but distrusted his fate because of her beauty and her youth. Who could tell? The moment passed while I hesitated, not knowing just whftt to say in mamma's behalf. If I only could have gained courage to ask him * hat was the motivo thac he spoke of to

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 188 h.

mamma upon that day at the beach; blit how could I? It was impossible. I got upon my feet. He picked up his gloves and followed me out into the hall. “You must persuade your mother to abandon this idea of moving,” he said, gently. “Oh, please, no!” j. exclaimed. ‘I can not, Doctor. We must go.” “I can not force you to stay,” he said, coldly; then turned to his man John, who watched his horse outside. ‘‘Go get a bill,” he said, “and put it upon the house.” “To let?” said John, with curious surprise. “Yes,” said the Doctor. “No—for sale. I’ll sell everything out,” lie added,” and go to thede—desert of Sahara. Then he leaped into his buggy and drove away, leaving me to ponder over the wretched frustrations of this miserable world. Dr. Steele had lived twenty years at least in this dear eld home, for he had often said that he came there when a boy of fifteen, and he could no* be far from fifty now. He was the only child of a widowed mother who had idolized him. When she had died, two years before, the Doctor had put an advertisement in the paper that, I well remember, seemed very attractive to mamma. Our arrangements with him were indeed very satisfactory. He was generous to a fault, simple in his tastes, punctual in his habits. From a boarder he had become a friend, almost a benefactor. Had it not been for the beauty of Blanche, or tne ambition of my mother, or the extreme warmth of the Doctor’s politeness, or perhaps a tenderer sentiment of his that he scarcely dared nourish for so young and beautiful a creature as Blanche—had it not been for one or all of these, we might have lived happily here for years. Now we must go adrift a.<ain, Heaven knew where and how. 1 went out that very afternoon upon ray dreary quest, and grew sick at heart when Isaw T the signal of misery and disintegration bangirtg at the doorway:|“For sale; inquire within.” I read it, and acknowledged to myself then that the deed was don. We were houseless, homeless wanderers again upon the face of the earth. I wished Blanche was not so beautiful; perhaps it would have been better, as the doctor had said, if she had been as ugly as a stone fence, whatever style of ugliness that might be. For, wherever we went, my mother would begin again plotting, manoeuvring, hoping, fearing, despairing. I went to all the agents in the neighborhood. I looked at impossible houses—houses like the Doctor’s, but with rents that reached the thousands. I found to my blushing horror that we had absolutely been living partly rfpon the Doctor’s bounty—the rent we had paid for his House was ridiculously small. A mere farcical sum, which he must have known long ago. He could not have been unconscious of his reckless generosity, and the advantage we were reaping from it. My cheeks tingled with every new knowledge I gained, but my chief sorrow lay in the fact that we could no longer go on living in the old blissfully ig nornnt way. The Doctor could afford it, seemed rather to enjoy it, and I had no longer that indomitable spirit that chafes under even a suspected obligation. If that spirit had ever existed, it had long ago oozed out of my weary toes, and every aching joint in my body. But it was useless to mourn over lost happiness. The only thing to do now was to get a house within our means and live in it. I resolved to spare my people all the misery that I could, and let them enjoy their last days at the dear, comfortable, roomy, sunshiny, never to-be-forgotten house of the Doctor’s. It was necessary to prepare them a little for the plunge downward they were •to take. Mamma was the only one that suffered in the anticipation. Fred was at that happy period of a male existence when the “malicious mischief’ of a boy begins to merge in the “rackets” of adolescent youth. He was absorbed in the transition—didn’t care what kind of a shelter I secured, so long as it would serve the necessity for sufficient sleep to tide him over from day to day. Blanche was still less in teres led. She laughed to scorn all my efforts to prepare her pride, and begged of me not to borrow trouble. Once in a while she bade me to remember that she was not an absolute drone 1 in the hive, and had her own schemes for mutual advancement. I shuddered when the conversation took this turn, for she was more beautiful than ever, and consequently there were more matrimonial rocks ahead. Poor mamma began to look gray and old, and took double doses of her nervous medicine. Her constant recurrence to that day at the sea shore made the bleak winds of March seem to be beating about my ears like pitiless waves against a ship in the rough of the sea, and her haggard and anxious surveillance of every movement of the Doctor’s drove me at last to securing a house. It was a coffin-shaped building that savored of sewer gas a little, and of mould and mildew very much more; the paper was hanging from the walls; the ceilings were cracked and dangerously bulgy; cobwebs fantastically festooned it from the draughty garret to the gloomy kitchens down in the bowels of the earth. It was unhandy, dismal to desolation, on the damp and shady side of the street, and had the uncanny reputation of lately being occupied by a clairvoyant who had never come back from one of his trances. But the agent spoke vaguely of repairs, and it was absolutely the only house in the whole metropolis that seemed available to our family. There was a final humiliation to suffer—security was demanded for the rent. There was nobody to a-k it from but the Doctor. I began to think he might be so glad to get rid of us that this would seem a trifling favor. For the Doctor, after the first shock, had appeared to bo quite resigned to the idea of our separation. His house yet hung upon his hands; it was neither let nor sold; but the Doctor went upon the even tenor of his way. apparently undisturbed by the rise or fall of real estate. March happened to be going out as a Hon on the day that I secured the house. The heavens opened, the rain fell, and beat upon my defenseless head, that had ached and ached for many a day. I had almost lived in the streets for the previous fortnight, and ought to have grown accustomed to my nomadic miseries. But they seemed to culminate in my final success, and when the agent handed me over a document which he said would secure me the house if pro|>erly signed, a cold shudder went to the marrow of my bones, and I felt as if it was my deathwarrant. I staggered home, resolved to have done with the whole torture that day, and found a moneyed-looking person on the door-step anxious to negotiate with the Doctor about his property. This was the Inst turn to the thumb screw, but 1 hastened to the Doctor's study and asked him lus price. “A hundred thousand dollars, cash down!” shouted the Doctor, without even turning his head. I thought I had misunderstood him. I was so faint and weary that every voice I heard went humming in my ears like a spent bell. "1 beg your pardon, Doctor,” I faltered; “what did you say?” He turned and looked at me. got upon his feet, and reached me just us it seemed to me I could no longer stand. He carried me to o.i easy-chair, undid my bonnet strings, dropped some liauid in a little glass, and pushing back my head, poured it down my throat. The bell rang loudly. The party at the door had waited all this time to know the price of the house. “TelJ him I’ve changed my mind,” said the Doctor. “Take the bill down, John, and tell Miss Betty’s mother to step down here at once.” “Your daughter is very III,” he said, as poor mamma came into the study. “She must be put to bed immediately. I will ca.-ry her up the stairs.” My poor mother, who could never restrain herself, hurst into a passion of teats and reproaches. “It is All your fault.” she cried to the Doc-

tor. “If you had. not trifled so with Blanche, and actually told me that day at the beach that you cared for my daughter, and had a motive in inviting us to go there, and then thrown her over in such a humiliating way, things would never have come to this pass,” But the Doctor had already picked me up in his arms and started for the stairway, my poor mother stumbling after him. “I did care for your daughter, madam,” said the Doctor, in a clear, ringing voice that might nave been heard upon the house-top,” and will care for her to my dying day, and mv motive has always been t* make her care for me, but it is your daughter Betty that I love, you blind and foolish woman, and not your beautiful Blanche.” I felt his rough chin graze my chin, his lips touch mine, in the twilight of the upper hall, and then I sank away into paradise. When I came back to the world again I was lying in my mother’s bed in the secondstory back room of the dear old house of the Doctor’s. I must have lingered a long time in that queer and shadowy land to which I had drifted on that last wonderful day of my dreary house-hunting. A soft balmy air floated in at the top of the window that looked over the old-fashioned garden; the thick knobby old lilac-tree must have been bursting into bloom, for the faint sweet fragrance reached me where I lay; the tulip bed must have been one blaze of color. My mother sat in a low chair by my bedside, with her prajr£r-book in her hand. But she looked younger by ten years than when I had seen her last. Poor dear woman! She was reconciled to my struggle with life and death, so long as more important matters had been, doubtless, comfortably settled. But she was overjoyed to find that I was there again. Poor mamma had always depended so upon me, and loved me well in lier own way. Now it seemed that she almost loved me in another way, too, as she did her beautiful Blanche. Amid her tears and smiles she began to twist some wisps of hair upon my forehead into curls, and arrange the blue bows that decorated my nightrobe. “Thank God,” she said, “for all his mercies! My dear, dear child, compose yourself, Betty, before the Doctor comes —he has forbidden any excitement, any confusion—but, my darling, you should know—it is necessary, it is right, that you should know, and perhaps it will do you good; it ought to, I’m sure; it has sustained me through all these weary weeks—Betty, my love, my darling, wonderful as it may seem, it was you that the Doctor admired, it was you that the Doctor spoke about at the beach, and his motive was perfectly honorable and creditable. I’m sure if I’d only known it all this trouble might have been saved. But it’s recognized now by everybody. He openly acknowledged it the day that you fell ill, and I must say he has acted up to it ever since.” “Who are you talking to. mamma?” said a voice at the door. “Has Betty come to?” Ana in ran my beautiful sister. She hated tears, but they fell from her magnificent eves upon my sunken cheeks and wasted hands; they fell in torrents; and although she was always so careful of her clothes, she flung herself by my bedside, rumpling all the pretty breadths of her marvellous spring outlit. She looked like a gem in porcelain. She was a hundred times more beautiful than ever. No wonder my mother was so astonished. It seemed a miracle that the Doctor had not a motive about Blanche. And my beautiful sister also loved me in her own waj r . She had determined to save me from what she considered an immolation. “You mustn’t talk, Betty,” she said, “and we mustn’t talk to you any more than we can possibly help. Ycfll've been very ill, dear, and we’ve been wild about you. The Doctor has gone about like a ghost, and we’ve followed him around like phantoms. I must say I think a great deal of the Doctor; he’s a very nice, splendid man in a great many ways. But you needn't marry him, Betty, when you get well, unless you want to. I is now how queer you are about these things —how you’d hate to marry him if you didn't just worship the ground he walked on; and yet you'd feel badly about the rest of us. And I want to tell you as quick as I can, before he comes in, that you needn’t think of anybody but yourself any more. You’ve worn yourself out for us about long enough. I’m engaged to Fitz-Edward Smythe, and only waiting for you to get well to marry him.” “Oh, Blanche!” I gasped; for the young man was little better than a poodle-dog. “I’m fond of him, Betty; I am indeed!” she exclaimed; and she really looked as ifshe meant what she said. “I actually love him. He’ll do anything in the world I tell him to do, and we shall have a most elegant time together, because his money is all li is own, and I can help him take care of it, and show him how to reully enjoy it in a proper way. There will be money enough for us all. You and mamma and Fred, are to live witttme, and it's all arranged between Fitz-EdvWird and myself that my family is to be held in the greatest consideration. I’d have been buried alive with your Doctor, and any one that marries him will be worse than a door-mat. Oh, goodness gracious me!” For the Doctor walked softly in, with a big bunch of roses in his hand. Blanche slipped out the door, my mother noiselessly followed her, and I was left alone with my benefactor. The roses fell out of his hand. He scanr.sd me at first with the eye of a physician. He felt my pulse, my forehead, my hands, my feet, he watched me for fully ten minutes, his face softening the while from the ASscuiapian rigidity to an ineffable tenderness. At last he took a long breath, and seating himself in my mother's chair, he pushed back his hair from his forehead. I could see how gray it had grown. I could see the lines in his face. I held out both my hands to him. “You would have been very sorry,” I whispered, “if I had not come back to you?” The strong hands trembled that closed about my own. He put his head down upon the pillow beside me. “Betty,” he said, “I think I should have gone and got some dynamite and blown the whole property and its owner into fragments.” His eyes still devoured my face. I sighed uneasily, and pulled the blue how off' my night robe and began to smooth back the hair that ray foolish mother had tried to curl. “I wish I had ever been the least bit in the world pretty,” I said. The Doctor picked up one of his roses that lay scattered about the counterpane, and putting it upon ruy breast, he said, in his old tender way, “ ‘Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time aud me That now sue knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.*" The Effect -of Stock Healing-. Texas Siftings. “How old are you, Jacob?” asked the doctor of an aged Austin Israelite, whom he had been called to attend in a professional capacity, and who is a broker whose mind runs on the fluctuations of the market. “I vash seventy-two years old,” was the reply. “You may live to be eighty years of age.” “I vash afraid not, Mishler Doctor,” replied Jacob. “Vy should the Lord vant to take me at eighty, when he can Jake me now at seventy-two?” _ Ail Adder Story. Lying Exchange. An amateur snake-charmer in the Yellowstone region has twenty-nine adders that think so much of him that they follow him uround like dogs. On wash-day each one takes the tip of a companion’s tail in his mouth, and they allow themselves to be hung up on joles for clotheslines. In the summer time they braid themselves into a most ingenious hammock, in which the snake-charmer Her. and reads novels on the front stoop.

RHYMES AND VERSES. BY JAMBS WHITCOMB RILEY. To a Benedict Frler.d. Dear Man —happy husband aud rapturous father, My heart bubbles over with joy To hear, high above all iny baobelor bother, My Benedict friend has a Hoy! Though to uote your delight In the rhymes that you write Makes mo envious in a degree., I am tickled clean through Tlmt the babe, having you. Has a far oetter father than me. Then whoop and lioo-ray for both father]and mother! And whoop and hoo-ray for the heir! May the hearts of you all, shuttled up with each other, Yield over this aee and a pairl ’Tis a fortunate deal; Aud whatever I feel Os envy is lost in my joy,— Because you’re its pa. And your wife is Its ina, Aud because it’s like me—lt's a boyl My Mary. My Mary! O, my Mary! The simmer skies are blues The dawniu’ brings the duzzle. And the gloamin’ brings the dew,— The inurk o’ nioht the glory O’ the moon, and kindles, too, The stars that shift about rho ftft,— But nae thing brings me voul Where is it,o, my Mary, Ye are biding a’ the whiles I ha’ wended by your window— I ha’ watted at the stile, And up and dowu tho river I ha’ rowed for mony a mile. Yet never found thedrift or drown'd Your laug-belated smile. Is it forgot, my Mary, How glad we used to be?— The sinimertime when bonny Bloomed the auld trystlug-tree— How there I carved •* name for you, And you a name for me; And the twilight kenned it only Wlieu we kissed eae tenderly. Bpeek aince to me, my Mary! But whisper in my ear As light as any sleeper’s breath, Aud a’ hi} soul will hear; M> heart shall stap it’s boating, And the soughiiig atmosphere Re hushed the while I leaning srnilo Aud listen to you, dear! My Mary! O, my Mary! The blossoms bring the bees. The suushiue brings the blossoms And the leaves upon the trees. The simmer brings the sunshine, Aud the fragrunco of the breeze, — But O, without you, Mary, I care nuo thing for these! We were sao happy, Mary! O think how aiuce we said,— Wad ane o’ ns gang fickle, Or ane o' us were dead,— To feel anither’s kisses We wad feign the auld instead, And ken the Jther’s footsteps In the grass aboou the Load. . My Mary! O, my Mary! Are ye sister o’ the air, That ye \auish aye before me As I follow everywhere!— Or is it that ye’re only But a mortal, wan wi* care. Bln' f search the kirkyurd over Aud dinna And you there. Two Sonnets to the Juue-Rug. I. Yon make me Jest a little nervouser Than any dog-gone bug I ever see! And you know night’s the iflue to pester me— When any tetch at all ’ll rub the fur Os all my patience back’ards! You're the myrrh And ruburb of my life! A bumble-bee Cain't hold a candle tq you; aud a ho * Bald hornet, with a laminated spur In his hip-pocket, daresent even cheep When you’re around! And, aern ye! you have mudo Me lose whole ricks, and stacks, aud piles ot sleep,— And many of a livelong night I’ve laid And uever shut an eye, hearin’ you keep Up that eternal buzzlu* serenade! If. And I’ve got up and lit the lamp, and clum On cheers aud trunks and washstands and bureaus. And all such dangerous articles as those, And biffed at you with brooms, and never come In two feet of you,—maybe akeered you some,— But what does that amount to wheu it throws A feller out o' balance, and his nose Gits barked aglnst the mantle, while you hum Forjoy around tho room, and churn your head Aginst the cellin’, and draw back and butt The plasterlu’ loose, and drop—behind tho bed. Where never human-bein’ even put Harm’s hand on you, or ever truthful said He’d choked your dern infernal wizzun shut! Traveling Abroad. Gath’s New York Letter. The steamship business is taking new directions, and I would not be at all surprised one of these days to find a regular line of steamers from our ports running direct to Gibraltar and the Suez canal, and through to India. There arc plenty of people in New York who have already been to India, among them ladies. I know one lady and her daughter who went two or three years ago from New York to Glasgow direct, and were then transhipped to a steamer of the same line at Liverpool, which took them to Gibraltar, Malta, and through the Suez canal to Bombay. They returned to Egypt by the same vessel, and then joined one of Jenkins’s excursion parties for the Holy Land, and saw ulso Turkey, the lonian Islands and Greece. The ladies then came through Italy alone, and through France and Germany, and made the thorough tour of the British Islands all alone. The same couple went abroad a few weeks ago, striking first for the low countries, and they are now taking the sea passage along the Norwegian passage, and expect to go to the North Cane, then to Sweden, und thence to Russia, and next fall pass through Poland and the south of Europe to the south of France and Spain, wire re they will winter. They expect to spend about sls a day between them on this journey. Cooling Fever I'atlentg, Bt. James Gazette. Wlmt seems an almost interminable discussion has been going on in the French Academy of Medicine ever sinco tiio typhoid epidemic of last autumn, as to the "proper mode of treating that diseuse. The system to which most prominence has been given is that recently introduced into German practice by Dr. Brand, the main feature of which is the immersion of the patient in long and frequently repeated cold-water baths. German medical statistics show an excellent result from this mode of treatment, though they are, it is said, vitiated by the conclusion of typhus patients in the typhoid category. Dr. Dnnioutpallier described at Monday's sitting of the academy an apparatus of his invention by which fever patients may be cooled to the required degree without undergoing the fatigue of leaving bed and being

wetted only to bo dried again. The apparatus consists essentially of two wuter-beds, one placed above the other, between which the patient lies. By a simple system of pipes the physician can regulate the temperature of the water in tho mattresses, and tiie cold hath, with its risks and discomfort j , is thus dispensed with. The idea of cooling fever patients is not new. Curry, an English physician,‘was the first to introduce it into modern practice—for the ancients seem to have employed it—exactly one hundred years ago, and it was much used within the present century in England for the treatment of scarlet fever. But tho results were not satisfactory. ROBERT T. LINCOLN. Some of tlie Personal Characteristics of the Present Secretary ot War. E. H., in Boston Herald. Do you want to know liis leading characteristic? It is a sturdy love of justice—the desire to know ami to do that which is right. This, and plenty of common sense in forming judgments of the course to be pursued, make Robert Lincoln an admirable administrator. To do the very best things for the' army and for every officer and man in it, to maintain a high order of efficiency aniof personal honor, and to protect the rights of the people is his idea. Go to him and tell him that a thing is wrong and ought to be corrected, or that it is imperfect and can be improved, and he wili.listen respectfully to your reasons, and act on them if they are sound, and the way is open. General Drum, the admirable Adjutant-general of the army, said to me once that’ in every official position he held, sometimes in the midst of war, and again in a city full of rioters, he had found it a safe rule to listen to every honest suggest tion. no matter how humble or how poor thd quarter from which it came. If the idea was good, it mattered not to him that the man who brought it was not a man of reputation or weight. So, I think it is with Mr. Lincoln as the executive head of the War Department. His administration has been a long and careful study of correct and useful methods of doing the public business. “He is the best Secretary of War wo have had since Jefferson Davis,” is the praise the Adjutant-general gives to him. He is a tireless worker. No man can master the details of such a vast establishment as our War Department, with its control of internal and coast improvements, and many things that are not strictly warlike, who does not take some of his official problems home with him at night. Mr. Lincoln does that constantly. Ho has the strength and the enthusiasm for his work which make him able and willing to burn the midnight oil, when it is necessary, in order that he may fully understand the questions he is to decide, or the advice ho shall give to the President. When an old man like Mr. Folger undertakes to devote his nights to official labor he speedily breaks down. Mr. Lincoln is not liable to such a damage to his health, because, having never abused his powers, he is now’ very fully iit possession of them. He does not belong to the “Ohio type,” and yet lie has his full share of that abundant vitality which has given the men of Ohio such an advantage over the men of other sections in the contest for commanding positions. But how does Robert Lincoln look? you ask. Avery good-looking man, indeed, who just misses the right to be called handsome, having none of tiie gauntiness or the ungainliuess of the martyr President, just passing from the roundness of limb that belongs to young and lusty manhood to the fullness of middle age; a white-skinned, blue-eyed, brown-beurded man, who seems to have more forehead when he tries to make a chimney-pot hat stay on his head than when it is off—larger-beaded than the President, or, I believe, than any other man in the cabinet, and possessing more vitality than any two of them. He looks you straight in the face, speaks promptly and decisively in a strong voice, which Ims u remarkable huskiffess ot tone—it alruoat crackles, and, if you heard it a good distance away and had never heard it before, you would know it belonged to a strong, positive, efficient nature. He walks with a vigorous and rapid stride, and seems at all times to have a surplus of physical strength. He is five feet ten inches high, and weighs fully 190 pounds, which will gradually increase to 200 as he grows older. In his office he sits most of the time, wffeeling when he talks, generally to the left, so that his right arm rests on the handsomely carved border of mahogany. His guest sits at the end ot the desk rather than at the opposite side. As he wheels in his chair l.e faces the corner of the room where sits Col. Barr, his military secretary. His privatesecretary, Mr. Sweet, and a subordinate clerk, are stenographers, to whom he dictates most of his letters. Tlie official day begins with in* terviews with senators, ■members, and the heads of bureaus or departments. Twice u week there is a cabinet meeting at noon to take him away from his desk. When at his' desk he tries to devote the afternoon to the dispatch of business, ami the last hour of tlie day, whether it ends at 4 o’clock or o’clock, as is more often the case, is to the examination of tho papers which tho 4 chief clerk brings in his pocket. Mr. Lincoln’s whole life has been that of an administrative business man. When he tirst began to practice law in Chicago, lie* was a partner of young Mr. Scammon, thei son of the then wealthy bank president and 4 real estate owner, J. Y. Scammon. This gave the young man a large amount of real estate lawing to attend to. Ho naturally kept on with insurance and real estate law, had much office practice, which became largo and lucrative. After a time he changed his partnership, forming the firm of Isham & Lincoln, of which he remains a member. It is said that his annual inconre when ho entered the cabinet was more than his official salary of SB,OOO. Whenever lie leaves olttco he will, doubtless, resume his Chicago practice. Mr. Lincoln is greatly devoted to his family. Mary Harlan, his wife, has been an invalid most of tho time since they came to Washington to live. The eldest child is a daughter fourteen years of age. The older son, Abraham, is now ten years of age, and is said to be a powerful young American. Tho second boy, Jesse, is two years younger. They alt attend school here. Mrs. Lincoln is gradually recovering lier health, so that next season her house, which would have remained closed hist season on account of the death of the Secretary’s mother, even if his wife had been well, will doubtless ugain be open. If Mr. Lincoln were not so gooda Secretary of War lie might be heard of a good deal more in society. Mr. Lincoln dresses very well. Ho is a great smoker. It is said that he knows how to play poker. Possibly. Ha is a live Western citizen, who enjoys life a good deal. He lacks magnetism, the politicians sav, and they do not put their arms around his neck. Experiments with Rubbles. An interesting series of experiments with soap hubbies were made in Philadelphia a few evenings since. A lantern microscope was used, and the sympathetic effpet of musical tones upon the dime of the hubbies was shown. Tlie scale of “Old Hundred” being played produced the reflection cf a succession of dull drabs and browns upon thecur tain. “Coming Thro* the Rye” produced 4 beautiful crimson blossom and a fine, heath* ery purple, while the globules showed niauvea und emeralds at the “Dreaming of Angels,” by a flue soprano. A French gray and a charming terracotta were the result of “La Rossignol,” from the same source. It is calculated that a post-horn obligato, by Levy, on a soap bubble would make a linll look as if it hud been caught out in a cyclone of rainbows. Mu. F. It. Bamihjml Loffansport, writes: “Browu’s Iron Bitter* t* a siwlcoublo reuiody, and does away with Indigestion.'*

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