Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 5 July 1884 — Page 11

iivoou i<l*r U(m. VtMOtUmM think that we would stadly die, For perfect peace so ardent is our quest— Were we but sure that death were utter rest When, lapped by Lethe's waters, we should lie, AS troubles drowned we might not quell or fly Ikd had our lives with weariness opprest, Du til the srish became a constant guest That we might drain nepenthe flagons dry. Ah, hat remembered joys to which we cling, So honey-sweet, stored in the jars of thought! We dread the blank that death to us may bring, And face the bitter things that life has brought; Ci Stmt to meet what from it yet may spring, Se that our hidden sweets may still be sought. —Ben D. House, Some Day. “Some day*’—it lives with all, one day, We hold it In our hearts bo low, That not our dearest friend can know The depth of joy in that “some day"— That perfect happiness, one day. We never grow too old to say, Some day will bring onr dream to us. And hope looks out thro’ night, and thus, from morn to eve the sweet “some day” Whispers of joy to come one day. Hie wasted track of yesterday To-day will lie in smooth white sands, Like rest that Bits with folded bands, Te dream the amethyst “some day" Will flash its waves of light one day. “Borae day”—it Hves for all; one day The trad that's nourished close must bloom; And if it give forth sweet perfume, We drink the bliss of this “some day," H not, we wait it still, one day. And as we go our way to slay, If seems the sun to set in gloom, And hope to bloom but o *er the tomb, The stone will roll away some day, la resurrection's light, one day. Orose elixir of “some day,” That makest sweet the present pain, As air is sweet e'en after rain. We yearn for thee. 0 near “some day," We toe, shall see and know, one day. —lda Hay Davis. [ Ton Hauts, June. Peasant and Peer. I. Dolly, the milkmaid, came down the lane, And Harry, the shepherd, came over the grass. And they met right there by the hawthorn hedge, And tl tat is the Way that it came to pass. Hair hands met ever the hawthorn hedge. Their Ups met there in a true-love's Idas; And the promise that passed between them there Opened a lifetime of perfect Miss. ♦ * * * * * n. Sir George goes out on the palace lawn, And eees on the terrace Mistress Clare, With her maid, and her png, and her silken robes, languid and feeble and proud aad fair. In a careless wav, with a courtly bow, Ha asked my lady to be bis wife— HU title against her acres broad; And that is the first of a cheerless life. ****** The robin Is singing by Harry's cot, Where Dolly is cooking the evening meal; And their love is long and their love is fend. And their honest hearts are as true as steal. Mr lady weeps in her eastle grand, For Sir George is out with hi 9 horse and hounds, And Love, the guest of the humble cot, Hes never yet crossed the eastle bounds. ’TU the same old story—not wealth nor fame, ffor Tank all lowlier men above, Nor a pedigree long, nor a lordly air, Can buy the blessing that comes with love. Waiting. Serene I fold my hands and wait, Her care for wind, nor tide, nor sea; I rave no more ’gninst time or fate, For lo< my own shall comd to me. I stay my haste: I make delays; For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know nay face. Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends X seek are seeking me; Mo wind can drive my bark aeU-ay, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; Mr heart shall reap where it has sown. And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder heights; So flows the good with equal law Unto the son! of pure delights. The stars come nightly to the sky, The tidal wave unto the sea; • Nor tune, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me. —John Burraugbs. Though Lost to Sight, to Memory Dear. Sweetheart, geed-bye! the sail Is spread to waft me far from thee, Arrfl soon before the fav’ring gale My ship shall bound open the sea. Perchance aH desolate and forlorn. These eyes shall miss thee many a year, But unforgotten every charm, Though lost to sight, to mem 'ry dear. i Sweetheart, good-bye! one last embrace! O cruel fate! true hearts to sever! Tot in this heart's most sacred place Thou, thou akme shalt dwell forever! And still shall recollection trace In fancy’s mirror, ever near, Each smile, each tear, that form, that face, Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear. Sweetheart, goodbye! though nevermore The wave may bear me back to thee, Though thrown upon some distant shore By angry wind end surging sea, My constant heart would stall recall Thy soft, brown eyre, and browner hair, And knob thy tones, thy touch, thy all, Though'lost to sight, to mea’ry dear. Ash, Alder, Maple. Finely the tapering ash displays Its just proportions, fairly crowned; Hspeak ascends, and from its base The stately branches sweep the ground. The rugged bark in furrowy folds Asserts an athelete's make within, And to the supple sinew molds. As fits the snake his leathern skin. Hie fertile alder, hundred-armed, Makes even- unclaimed spot its own; Hie lawless life is surely charmed 'That swells its poSeu-preguaat cone. The maple through its kjndly veins Filters the air-drenched sunlight fine; Hie climbing sap its height attains, Its wood ie steeped in amber wine. Bach frost-bound fibre thus made n*w White yet the day is halved with night, Its boughs ensphered against the blue Speak to the eye in line* of light. [Elaine Goo dale, in the Critie. Love Is Not a Duty. “Love is not a duty; Love is a delight: It oometU as the wind comes. That bloweth in the night; It eomes without our Idddrng— Besought, it taketli flight. Love is not a dot}-: [ Love is a delight,. “Love is not a duty, Love is a delight: It eometh as the flower names That btoometh over night. It blooms without out asking, fn perfumed beauty bright. Love in net a duty; Leva is n delight ” —From the Opera of ‘ ‘Spanish Dollars. Wtsu ni'en had learned sages are agreed that rheumatism and neuralgia, being essentially diseases of the blood, require treatment from within, and not mere external applications. Athlophoroa attacks the seat sf disease by driving sat the poisonous acids that invade the system and produce euch. excruciating torture in ttie joints and muselos. It never fails. Mr. C. Burt, ol Hansom, Mich., says, “he derived more benefit from a single bottle Ilian -from aH the other noedies he over tried."

i FROM LQYE ESTRANGED. It had been a glorious day—nil sunshine and brightness, and for one of these two it had held a mew light that day—a light the girl beside him was soon to quench in utter darkness, for her face was flushed with anger, mingled with shame and disappointment, while the man’s was full of passionate appeal. These two, Justine Latimer and Gerald Franklin, stood facing each other; thepe two, who only the day before, in the little village church, had been pronounced one by on aged minister of God. The sky above them was a canopy of purest blue, the ground around them a spangled bed of flowers; and yet they stood facing each other, the stormy rebellion against fate in the girl’s heart hidden by the strength of will, as hers ml cried out they must part forever. ‘'l will never acknowledge our marriage—taot marriage of fraud and deceit!" she cried. “I am not yeur wife—l will never consent to be known os such. I will still be Justine Latimer —Justine Latimer till I die. ” “Yon are Justine Franklin, ”he said, “though you say you will never acknowledge the mar riage; but. Justine”—trying to speak calmly, though his voice trembled—‘'remember you were equally deep—equally guilty in the deception.” “I was net There is a great difference in passing for less than what yon are and in claiming what does not belong to yon.” “Justine, the only difference is this—that I proved I love you for yourself alone, while you married me because you thought I was my uncle's heir. I believed you a simple, penniless governess, and as such I wooed yon.” “Wooed me, leaving me to believe you George, instead of Gerald Franklin!” “Had I thought,” he said, “hod I dreamed you were the high-born heiress of James Latimer, 1 would never have done so.” “You let me believe ” “I loved yon, Justine. At first I did not willingly lead you, nor even wish you. to think that; but when I saw yon believed It, I was coward enough to let you continue in the belief, but 1 am well punished for my deceit;” then suddenly changing his manner, and holding out his arms to her: “Oh, my darling! my darling! wtH you not pardon me? Do not wreck my life, ray happiness, my every hope of joy. I will make my way in the world for your sake. I will moke a name ” “As the husband of an heiress, ne doubt, yon could do so.” '‘Not as your husband, Justine. I will not ask to claim yon until then. Only give me hope—the hope that in the future you will come to me as my wife, remembering only that I love you. Will you give me this hope, Justine?” “Never!” she cried passionately—“never! Justine Latimer, I will live and. die sooner than acknowledge myself the wife of anything so utterly despicable as a fortune-hunter!” “A fortune-hunter!” his handsome face darkening at last, all the pleading look of passion and pain fading from beneath the sooro of her words. “Justine, you do not think —you do not believe that!” “I both think and believe it You knew I was Justine Latimer, the heiress.” “Stop!” ke said. “You need go no further.” “Then you will not claim an unwilling wife?” “No, Were you the simple governess I believed you, I would claim you despite yourself, even if 1 had deceived you, for you would at least know I did not marry you for your wealth Or position, and I would trust to my future love and devotion to win your pardon at last. But oh, Justine, I loved you so dearly—” She turned her head aside at his words, and though he noticed the action he continued: “1 will finish all 1 have to say new, for it may be years before we meet again. It was for love of you I wronged you in deceiving you, whether you believe it or not; bat since you refuse to acknowledge our marriage, I give you my promise never to proolarm it till you do.” “That I will never do.* “That you will do. Mark ray works, in bitter humiliation you will ory out ‘He is my husband!' and I may then do as you have done now —refuse to acknowledge it” “It will never be, ” she said again. He smiled. “We will see,” he answered. During all the time the girl’s beautiful, haughty face had been singularly pale; but if she were suffering she hid it well, and Gerald FrunkHn never dreamed that in trampling on his heart she whs breaking her own—wrecking her own life as completely as his. He turned away and left her standing there in all her haughty pride—left her with the heart almost dead within him. She stood watching him till he was out of sight, then all the hauteur, all the pride died out of her face, all her forced composure gave way. “Oh, my love, my lore, my darling!" she cried. “I have saved yeur name, your honor and your pride, at the sacrifice of my own heart as well as yours. Oh, Gerald, my love, my lore!" She sank down on the gross, all white and trembling, and raised her agonized eyes to heaven, then hurst into a passion of bitter tears —tears that came from the inmost recesses of her suffering heart. While she knelt there in her passionate abandon of sorrow, a man oame slowly down the dell; but as his eyes ‘fell on the girlt kneeling form, he stopped a moment, then drew hack into the shadow of some trees at hand. At last, when her passion had worn itself out, •ha rose and turned in the direction where the man stood; but he passed quickly through the trees, and in a few min utes oame up behind her. Her face grew paler as he reeeWl her side, though he only made some commonplace remark as he overtook her; and though he noticed her white face and glowing eyes, his voice was pleasant.

“I hare kept my promise,” sbe said, ignoring his greeting completely. “I have parted ilwww from Gerald Franklin. Redeem your promise to me." ■‘Ton hare parted forever from Gerald Franklin, yon say, hut yon have not given me the other promise spoken Os." •That I will marry you! Oh, no, no!" “Not that," he said dovrly. “I am content that you .s herald promise to wed no other wm bat me.” A strange Tight came into her eyes. **l promise,”’ she said, “that I will marry no other man, H that satisfies you.* “This is yours, then," he said. “I know yon would not break a promise;" and he handed her a paper as ho spoke. She glanced at ft, her face, if possible, growing still paler, then she tore it in many pieces and scattered it to the wind. “1 hare saved his honor at least,” die said, “if I have wounded his heart in the doing;" then She turned to the man at her side;'‘Leave me now,"she said; to look at you is mere than I can bear at present' Without a word, William Fortescue turned and left her, but his face was dark with suppressed rage. Four years have passed, and again it iB summer time —again a day as fair as the one on which Justine FrankHn had parted from her husband—the day she pat happiness from her forever—the day she had promised to wed no ' man hut William Fortescue; and to-day she is William Forteeoue’s wife. All that had come to her in the four yeans that had passed since that day came to her, now, standing there la the garden, looking tip at the stately mansion that was her home. Her months of passionate pain and longing far the love she had aent from her—the love that could never be hers. Then the story es Gerald Ffa&kHn’g death, , the day that, with aching heart, die knew sbe was free—free from the marriage that lay secret in her soul. The eld clergyman was dead, the certificate destroyed; neene would ever know she had bean Gerald Franklin's wife. Then the finding of the new will of the eccentric old man, who had left her and her sister Vivian all his vast wealth—a will that left net only her penniless, bother idolised young sister as well, if aha. Justine, did ant besoms William Fortescue’s wife. i Ah, women are proverbially weak, and beautiful Justine, though she had once proved herself strong, married William Forlaseue. Standing this day, thinking of all, she thinks M well of Vivian's lover, wondering will she Hka him whes she meets him—wondering is he worthy of bar bright young sister. Vivian had been away on a visit, and it wap than she had met her lover, hot when Justine had asked his name she had blushed shyly and

THE EtfDJjOTAPOLIS JOURNAL, SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1884.

said she had promised net to teU for a while—net till he oame to Justine himself. Justine had been out for some time, but she knew that Vivian's lover had come an hour before, if he had come by the train by which he was expected. She went up the balcony, wondering had he come, and filled with a strange longing she could not account for, to see this lover whom Vivian seemed to worship. Suddenly she stood still, all the blood leaving her heart, all the color fading from her face, a sudden dizziness, that almost blinded her, coming over her. “Oh, heavenly Father, it could not be!" she cried, as the mad thought swept through her brain. The next moment she went over to a window that opened .on the balcony and glanced In. Vivian sat oh a sofa, aad beside her a man, whose arm encircled her waist, on whose shoulder her golden head rested. Ah, heaven! she had not been mistaken; the man was Gerald Franklin. The next moment she stood before them, and Vivian sprang to her side with a low cry, frightened by the awful whiteness of her face. Justine clasped her in her arms as if to shield her from some menacing danger, and glancdng over her golden head at the haughty self-pos-sessed man, whose handsome face was perfectly unmoved. "Why have you come here?" she cried; “what do you want?” “Why have I come here?” he said. “Because Vivian is here. What do I want? Your sanction to our marriage. She has already promised to become my wife." “No—no—no! it cannot be. Oh. my God, am I going mad?” The next moment she had fallen senseless at their feet. The door was suddenly opened, and William Fortescue entered the room. The first glance he took showed him his wife lying senseless at. the feet of Vivian and Gerald Franklin, her old-time lover. The demon of jealousy had slumbered long ia his bosom, and now it awoke to full life as he saw a way to torture his wife—to make her suffer as he felt she was capable of suffering. In his own selfish way ho loved Justine passionately, but since she did not love him—since the very sight of his rival caused her to fall senseless, as if the very life had been stricken from her, he would make her suffer for it How the next agonizing weeks passed to Justine, only herself and God could tell; and then one day her husband came to ber and told her that Gerald and Vivian were going to be privately married a few days later. He watched her face while he told her, 'and gloated in its anguish. '•lt oaimotbe! It shall not bel” she cried. "Oh, God! the heavens would fall 1 will prevent it at any cost!” Her husband laughed. “You ought to u-y,” he said. “I will net try, but succeed,” she said. Three days later Gerald Franklin stood beside the altar, a slender, girlish form, with golden curls escaping from under a heavy veil, at his side: .“Will yon take this woman to be your wedded wife?” The next instant, white and breathless, Justine stood before them. Through Justine's memory rang the words of Gerald Franklin, that never-to-be-forgotten day: “You will yet claim me for your husband—claim me ia bitter humiliation. Perhaps then I will refuse to acknowledge the marriage.” Ah, God! that day had come; she must not only claim him to save her sister, but stand before the world dishonored "herself. Without a moment’s hesitation she sprang to Gerald’s side and looked up in the minister's face. “He cannot many her!” she cried; “I am his wife. He is my husband." William Fortescue had entered the church at the same moment as Justine, and a ory of rage left his lips, that died away, however, as Gerald faced him —faced him for a moment, before he turned to Justine. “You claim me as your husband,” he said, “you acknowledge yourself my wife?" “Yea, yes! Oh, Vivian, I have saved you, but at what a cost!” The next moment the woman beside Gerald threw her veil aside, and a beautiful face looked straight at them. It was not Vivian Latimer. William Fortescue’s face grew palid; then Gerald Franklin continued, still addressing Justine: ‘T said perhaps I weald then deny the marriage and refuse to acknowledge it; but no. You are my wife.” “And I claim you as ray husband, William Fortescue,” said the stranger. I have all the proofs m my possession at last” “The game is up!” he cried, looking atherwith a sneer; “but I had a strong hand, if I had only known how to play it right” “Not only that game.” said Gerald Franklin, “hut every other, for I can prove that the will, purporting to be the last will of James Latimer, is a clever forgery. I have a lawyer here, however, and if you will make a full confession, you will get two days to make good your escape; if not, you must take the full consequence of your crime. Make your choice quickly.” “I will confess." Ten minutes later, leaving his signed confession behind him, William Fortescue left the chureh, without a glance of compassion even from the girl who had proclaimed herself his wife. Then Gerald turned away, bat Justine sprang to his side. “Gerald, what ever else you think, you must kaow I believed you dead when I became his wife.* “I kaow that. Vivian was in the plot to expose him, for I told her all," he said. Me turned away again, bat she clasped his am aad raised her white face to his. “You mußi listen now and hear all,” she cried. “If I had only heen brave for yea and me four Stars ago, what misery would have been saved! era Id, he could have branded your father as a forger, aad the note was in hie possession, and he swere he would publish it if I did not give you up forever. I won the paper from him and saved your honor.” Gerald smiled. “Not my father,* he said, ‘*but a man of the same name; but not even a relation.” “My sacrifice was all for nothing, then?” she said. The next moment he had caught her hands, and looked questioningly into her eyes. “Justine! Justinel did yen love me then? Oh, my love, did yon sacrifice yonr own love and mine for that? Nay, not our love," he said, as he read the truth in her eyes, “but four years of our happiness.*

Imparting Valuable Instruction. , New York Bua. t “Papa,” asked a little bey. “a mau who steals loaf of bread is a thief, isn’t her "Yes, a dastardly thief.” “Is a man who steals $16,000 a thief, toe?” “Well, no, ray boy, scarcely. Defaulter, I think, is a more appropriate word.” “And what to he called whoa he steals a million dollars?” “There to aa such tiring as stealing a million dollars, my son. It is termed ‘diverting.’ When a gentleman diverts a million dollars he is spoken of as a finaander.” IHAnst Hnhh Resorts. Ninr York Bu*. Dude James (on a visit)—Well, Bobby, I suppose you go to Sunday school every Sunday? Bobby —l fid; but the Sunday-school to closed new. Uncle Jake—lndeed! And why is it closed? Bobby—’Cause the minister has gone to Europefbr his health. Unde James And can not the superintendent carry on the Sunday-school without the minister, Bobby? Hobby- Yea, he could, hut ho isn’t hero, either. He has gone to Canada for his health. Placing Ber at Her Ease. New York Sun. Dumley had accompanied a friend heme to dtoner, and, aa they seated themselves a* the table, tha bootees remarked: “I trust that yen wtil make allowances, Mr. Dumley. My girl left me this morning very unexpectedly, and I was compelled to cook toe dinner myself.” “Oh, certainly, my dear madams, oertainly," responded Dunriey, with much manner. “lean put ay with any tiring.” Pub* blood is absolutely necessary in order to enjoy perfect health. Hood’s Sarsaparilla noriflfi* the bipod and strengthens tbs system.

A Bad Spell. You have heard of th* city of Sloax— The loveliest spot aver yon knioux— And the following tale, I us sure, cannot fall To ho read with emotion by ykra* To tins bustling young city of Sioox Cams a scion of Albion, trionx; When the name was pronounced In his hearing, he flouuoed. And at onea in a passion he flioux. “Now, tell me, ah people of Sioux," He shouted, “what can a man diouxf As "tie spelled; so we say it, And that is the way It Should be!” And he blustered and Mioux. And all through the city of Sioux, That man raised a huUabullioux, With madness enraged, Like a tiger uncaged, He fell upon gentile and Jioux. As over the ehy of Sieux He rushed, still the madder he grioux, Till he fell in a fit. And his soul promptly it Left his body—sans further adioux. Then the coroner’s jury of Sioux Their verdic t most solemnly drioux; “By disease of tlm heart Victim’s life did depart.'' You have heard the sad tale; I am thrioux. COWS WHOSE OWNERS LOVE THEM. The Fancy Prices Commanded by Jerseys— Used to Decorate a Lawn. New York Sun. “There is nothing like a Jersey cow anda peafowl for the ornamentation of a lawn,” said a gentleman, at his country seat in Connecticut, last week. As he was describing the points of beauty of a sleek, lithe little cow, with head and eyes like a deer, a tall, white-bearded man drove up and asked permission to look at the cow. The accent of the stranger indicated that his home was in the South, and his dignified courtesy and solemn good nature recalled the manners of the planter before the war. He slowly circled around the timid little cow, put a sow questions as to her registry and history, and then surprised the owner by a plump offer of SSOO for the animal, and a bonus of $25 for making the sale. “Ah, but she is not for sale,” said the owner. ‘•I will however, give yon the refusal of her at that price if you will leave me your address.” The stranger produced a card which showed that he lived in a Western State, although he speared to be thankful that he had “got. his reusin' ” down in the blue grass of Kentucky. He was making his annual trip through New England, picking up Jersey cows and heifers for his herd, and he said that he would “be very happy, sah. if you would do me the bonah to sell me that three-year-old, for I confess, sah, that she is a beautiful animal." Being unable to make a purchase, he did not object to burning a cigar under the shade of a veranda and to revealing his love for Jersey beauties. “There’s no other such sort of cow,” he said, “and upon my honah, sah, as a gentleman. I know men who are as ranch in love with these shy little animals as they are sah, with thenwives. There are no such milkers, and no cow sells like them. There’s Mary Ann, up at St. Lambert, Canada, that has yielded four pounds of butter in one day. She’s worth $30,000. Mr. Datfmg, of the Fifth-avenue Hotel, inNew York, has a beautiful animal, that produces twentyodd pounds of butter a week. The milk of a good Jersey is about 90 per cent pure cream; and, sah, I have milked a Jersey and churned the veeeel at the same time, and when I finished, sah, I had a small quantity of butter in the vessel merely by agitating the milk as it came from the oow. This shows now rich the milk is. “The Jersey cows sell from $290 to $2,090, according to their record as butter-makers. Their butter sells for from eighty cents to $1 a pound, and if it ia well made it will stand firm without ice in warm weather. At my herd I sell the cream by the inch. It is collected in registering cans, and sold according to the number of inches of cream registered." “I suppose the cows are great pets?” “On the contrary, they keep wild nearly always. It seems to run in their blood. It is said that the stock is the offspring of a buck deer that in early times swam over from the coast of France to the Jersey islands. They are like the deer in some points, and the young calves are very like fawns. The cows when they run in blue grass ore hard to find. They drop down in the grass and make themselves as small as possible. I give you my bonah, sah, I have been within ten feet of a cow in a blue-grass field, and have failed to see her. They have a way of hiding themselves like game. We are making the experiment out West of regulating the sex of the progeny from the foundation cows, so as to get as many heifers as possible, and we believe that we will sue ceed. The bull Jerseys are not so profitable to handle. 1 think we will be able to increase the oapaoity of the cows in this country. You know we are exporting short-horns from Kentucky, and are selling them to the very breeders in England who supplied us some years ago. The breed is improved here, because of the lime in the water and in the food. It gives more bone and adds weight aad strength to the beasts. I believe we can so treat the Jerseys as to be able to increase their capacity. They are not fit for beef, because they are of a lean kind which yon cannot fatten. But, sah, lime-water and binegrass ore wonderful bone and muscle-makers. ”

SOFT HANDS OUT OF DATE. The Palms es Those Who Neither Toil Nor Spin Nevertheless Quite Horny. New York better In Bochester Herald. The place was the house es a wealthy family in Fifth avenue. The oracle, President Barnard, of Columbia College was discoursing an the thoroughness with which genuine good breeding imbued a human being with refinement “With my eyes blinded as they are," ho re marked—be wore eye baadgffes because of temporary inflammation —“I could probably distinguish by a shake of the hand betwoen a parson es refinement and a person of coarseness. “Let us test yon Mr. Barnard," said his mischievous young hostess. “Agreed," said he. Here let me interpolate some information as to the fashion in hands. There was a time, not long ago, when the elegant belle slept with greased hands in old gloves and day by day kept them carefully hidden from the sun, like mushrooms growing white in a cellar, so that they might look and feel as though they had never come in contact with, anything rougher than satin. It is wholly different now; athletic sports are in high approval. The daughter of wealth grasps oars, tennis bats, bridle reins and tricycle handle-bars, all without gloves; and she is proud of the callous palms which ensue and the red rosiness es the knuckles that used to be the hoe es the lily. Her liking for out-door exercise has not yet taken her into the base ball field, where her fingers might get permanently , disfigured by breakage, and so the hands are not becoming distorted though they will never again be quite so small or soft as they were. Well, Barnard evidently was not posted in this material matter, for he fell precipitately into the trap set for him. “1 will call in my maid,” said the rogue, “and you shall shake bands with her. She and can hardly say *boo t - without violating some grammatical rule. She’s without a bit of culture. You shall also shake hands with a young lady who, as you will admit, when told her name, is nothing short of cultured perfection. But mind, sir, you mnsn’t allow yourself to judge by softness or hardness of palm* “No,” be promised; "I will identify the lady and the maid solely by the subtle characteristics of theirl asp." Nevertheless, he declared that the maid, who was brought iu to give him her small, smooth, pliant band, was the lady, and that the lady, who laid a leathery baud in his, was the servant. If girls go on using their hands for pleasure, the nowem with lily-flngared and velvet-palmed heroine* will have to be revised. The Providential Spring at Andereonviße, Correspondence lowa State Hechter. On the west side of the stockade, near the north gate, is the noted “providential spring,” - that broke out one August morning, when the water m the creek had become so filthy as to be no longer endurable. The story as told is that one day there came a terrific storm of thunder, lightning, wind and rain, which suddenly raised the water In the creek so high as to sweep down the walls of the stockade on the west side, where the creek enters the inclosure. That, when the j flood subsided, it wss discovered that a spring es dear, pure water had gushed eat of the hill side-near the "‘deed-line,* which flowed from that time forward la suoh abundance as to supply the

entire army *f more than 30,000 inmates with pure water. Many of the famishing soldiers looked upon this as a direct interposition of the Almighty to save them from the horrors of the polluted creek. That no spring was visible up to that time all the Inmates of the stockade agree in declaring. I, top, saw its clear crystal waters boil up from the white flftnd In a stream large enough to supply the city of Des Moines with drinking water; but not being disposed to accept the “special providence’’ theory without, a thorough investigation, I sought out the oldest resident of the place, M. P. Saber, the station agent, who has lived here thirty-six years, asked him to tell me what he knew of the origin of this spring. He informed me that he had known the spring for more than thirty years. That when tnis region was an unbroken’ forest, this spring was -a favorite resort for deer. That when the stockade -was erected in February. 1864, the workmen in excavating the trench filled np the spring so that the water oozed through the sand to the crock below without rising to the surface. The flood that swept the stockade walls away during that terrible August storm, washed the earth from over the spring, and it again burst out clear and strong as of old. The famishing prisoners, knowing nothing of its existence heretofore, naturally regarded it as an especial gift for their benefit. TWO DOG STORIES, Which Go to Show that Animals Have Souls —A Canine Ghost. Henry Reed, ia 81. Louis Monties Can. I am about to teli a story which is almost beyond belief. Indeed, if the circumstances were not vouched for by members Os my own household, here present, iu whose veracity I have un- '• Shaken confidence, I could hardly credit it my-; self. I tell the .story os it is told to me. without exaggeration, for to exaggerate in such a case would be despicable. A family in Cincinnati had a dog of no particular breed, but a favorite for bis good humor and intelligence. The cityhad a dog law, which provided that all dogs at large and unmuzzled, between two fixed periods, were to be captured and destroyed. Year after year, on the day before the dog law went into operation, this dog disappeared from home, go 1 ing to a branch of the family outside the boundaries of the corporation; and on the day after that on which the term expired he would joyfully reappear and take up Iris old life as usual. At no other times would he make such excursions. Family visitors from the city he would greet with extravagant demonstrations of delight, and on their return would follow them to the corporation line, but no temptation would persuade Him to go a single step beyond. Does the dictum of the young philosopher, that brnte intelligence is "the result of the other powers of the body," account for all this; and, if it does, must we not in the same way account for human in- ; telligence? I was about to stop here; but. while I have been writing this I have heen hearing a story of a dog that I greatly admired for his intelligence ' and nobility of disposition, told by another apd to another, with ne thought of it going any further, which I will relate as having a possible bearing upon the soul question. “Sbep" was the property of Captain H ,of the army, and had probably in early life belonged to a Scotch herder. As he advanced in age he constituted himself the especial guardian of his mistress, and followed ber out of doors and in. One evening, a few weeks ago, as she was going on a brief errand to her chamber in the dark, she heard, or thought she heard, his footsteps puttering along behind her, as she had heard them hundreds of times before. At the head of the stairs slie stopped and drew her skirts aside, as she was accustomed to do, to allow him to pass, which she supposed he did, entering into a sort of open closet or recess opposite the door of her chamber. Lighting a match for a momentary purpose, she saw what appeared to be his shadow or phantom in tiie place where she thought he had. entered. Going down immediately, she heard, or thought she heard, his voice in the shrubbery at some distance from the house. Surprised at tins, she instituted an inquiry, and learned, to her astonishment, that lie had not been in the house during the evening. When the light of the next morning broke over the waters of Long Island sound, the lifeless remains of poor Shep were revealed. The victor in a thousand battles had succumbed at last to the universal destroyer. What will the philosophy professor do with this incident? There have been—or else the world is much more given to lying than is strictly creditable to its origin or antecedents —apparitions of men and women contemporaneously with the moment of their decease. This i* taken as an infallible evidence that such men and women, and by inference, all other men and women, have souls. But if to be able to masquerade as a ghost is proof of souls in men and women, why aot in—some other things.

Mark Twain on Beecher. Buffalo Express. The great preacher never sleeps with his clothes on. Once,when remonstrated with upon the singularity of his conduct, in this respect, and the pernicious effect the example might possibly have upon the younger members of his congregation, he replied with the frank and open candor that always characterized him, that he would give worlds to be able to rid himself of the custom—and added that the auguish he had suffered in trying to break himself of the habit had made him old before he was ninety. Mr. Beecher never wears his hat at dinner. He does not consider it healthy. It does not immediately brake down erne’s constitution, but is stow and sure. He knows one case where the man persisted in the habit, in spite of the tears and entreaties of his friends, ntil it was too late and he reaped the due reward of his rashness—for it earned him off at last at the age of 166. Had the man listened to reason he might have lived to be a comfort to Iris parents and a solace to their declining years. Mr. Beecher never swears. In all his life a E'uie expression has never passed his lips, if he were to take it into his head to try it he would make oven that disgusting habit seem beautiful —he would handle it as it never was handled before, and if there was a wholesome lesson hidden away in it anywhere, he would ferret it out and use it with tremendous effect Panopolied with his grand endowments, hie judgment, his discriminating taste, his felicity of expression, his graceful fancy—if Mr. Beecher had a mind to swear he eould throw into it any amount of poetry and pathos, and splendid imagery and moving earnestness, and resistless energy, topped off and climaxed with a Sue pyrotechnic, and conflagration, and and fancy swearing that would astonish light toe hearer, and forever after quiver through his memory an exquisite profusion of rainbows, and music, aad thunder and lightning. A man with a high order of intellect and appreciation oould sit and listen to Mr. Beecher swear for a week without getting tired. How Gordon Forms His Plans. London Truth. One of the stories about Gordon is that his military operations are directed by a method similar to what in olden times was known as the fortes Virgilianw, with the Bible substituted for the AineicL If the General, in his morning Bible-reading, chances on a warlike passage, such as the exploits of Joshua, or David, there is warm work round about Khartoum before nightfalL lE, n the contrary, the morning lessons suggest peaceful thoughts, then for the rest bt the day toe garrison, like Dan, abides to its breaches. This method may be slightly more rational than that of "skying a copper, mas much as the operator can, if he chooses, exercise some control over the result; but I am impious enough te suppose that each process is about equally trustworthy as a guide to tlie intentions of Divine Providence HtmilisM Made *f Sheep’s Horn. Anew horseshoe has lately been experimented with ait Lyons, France. It to made entirely of sheep’s horn, and ia particularly adapted to hones employed in town* and kuowu net te have a steady foot on the pavement The results of the eKpemueute have proved very satisfactory, as horses thus shod have been driven at a rapid pare on th* pavement without slipping. Besides this advantage, th new shoe is vary durable,and, though a little more expensive than the eld one, seems destined sooner er later te replace the iron shoe, particularly tar harass employed in large cities where, besides the pavement, toe streets I am fetmmetod by tramway rails, which beet •their slipperiaess constitute a source of peruse- I neat dangerAtxbsi Ague Cureto warranted to cure all malarial disorders, when the dtrectiUM are faith fatty followed.

“Do She wall T ' fft. de rain am corue at las’. An' de long drouf time am pas' An' de weeds am growin* fas' Ia d* sbowah; An’ de huckleberry briar An' de jlmson's growin’ higher Every hour, I tell yon, sho’s yet- Lawn, Ote Harrier's, early hewn Will o*H yrm m dat eawn Wid de plow; Fur de pusriey am a growin', A*' trouble am a growin', Tell you now!" —W. h. Yietcher. LOGAN AND THE SOUTH. How He Helped a Confederate Soldier Oat of Trouble. Natchez (Sf-iss. I Crusader. During the dark days of reconstruction, wo think it was in 1868, the month of June, three gentlemen sat on the porch of a private boardhouse on Michigan avenue, Washington City. As they sat together in low and earnest conversation, an odd man in worn, but once respectable garments, lame aad hobbling on a crutch, passed directly in front of the trio and glanced aearchingly in the faces of all three. There was an expression in the upturned countenance of the old man too readily defined—a look #f weariness—an air, in fact, of present poverty, that could not be understood by the group. “Can I do anything for yon, my man?” asked th* senior of the trio, attentively regarding the stationary figure in his front “I thing not sir,” was the quick response. • “Where did you get that lame leg?” inquired the speaker. “At Chiekamanga. ” “On what side?" * “Your side, if you are a Southerner,” rejoined the old man. leaning wearily on his crutch. “Not mine, friend. ” said the gentleman. “I belong to the other side." “That makes a big difference,” remarked the crippled stranger. ‘T was about to ask you for a favor, but you live on the wrong side of the house. ” “What con I do for you, old man?” still urged the gentleman, with quiet gravity. “Well, I may as well teli you as any one else. I am a stranger to the city and trying to get out of it. I hare a home in the far Sooth, and enough to lire on when l get there. I ran out of money in Baltimore, and was brought here by the kindness of the conductor on the train. ” “Have you no money now?" “f expected a remittance of $25 from home when I reached this place—but it has not arrived." Well, you shall pot go home on your crotches if 1 can help it,” and the gentleman produced his pocket-book and counted out six $5 bills iu the palm of the stranger. “It is too much! I dislike to take rtf” exclaimed the old nun, grateful and astonished. “Keep it—yea are welcome to it,” persisted the gen tie man. I thank you—a thousand times!" said the eld man. “When I get home I will return every cent of it. Your name —for I want to remember it aad honor it as long as I live." “Never mind that, eld man. If yen have enough, as you say, to live on iu your far-a Way home, and if you should ever meet in that home a boy in blue in such trouble as you are to-day, just hand him the little amount I give you now, and say no more about it" The mau who shut one of your owtr'dear boys—a poor Confederate —on his way rejoicing, was Gen. John Alexander Logan, noted, if some of our exchanges are to be his judges, for merciless treatment e* Southern soldiers.” A PARALYZES. The Latest Adjunct to the Make-Up of a Howling Swell, Philadelphia Prase. People who are not themselves “bowling swells” who will take a peep into fashionable quarters this summer will see something new that, if it does not quite take their breath away, will at least make them feel the utter insignifi canoe of being behind the age, and being one of those poor unfortunates who “don't know, you know.' The new thing will be seen perched upon the nose of the feminine swell, or rather up against it, with the nose projecting through. It is the old, rery old, lorgnette revived. It consists of a pair of eye-glasses attached to and opening out of a handle, set in se stiffly that they keep their place when open. The whole frame is usually made of the same material, usually tortoise-shell or ivory, and sometimes goldmounted. It is to the fashionable feminine eye what the single, eye-glass is to the male swell, and just as overwhelming in its effect. The agnostic girls who don’t like it call it "the paralyzer” and try to puke a great deal of fun at it It is usually worn by a tall young lady, and to see such a one, with a vacant expression, raise the lorgnette scrutinizingly and critically and through them make an inspection of the people around her at a dinner table or in a car is a study fit for Du Mauriur It requires a great deal of practice to use them, aad some of those who carry them experiment for hours before the looking-glass. To do it properly the right hand has to be closed, with the thumb underneath the three last fingers. The forefinger is left tree aad it is with it alone that all the manipulation of the paralyzer is executed. With the eve-frame opened out at its proper angle the handle is sim ply grasped by the lightly bended forefinger and thus held to place. When carefully done to this manner and with the eyes not appearing to look anywhere in particular, but everywhere to general, the effect is “awfully utter" beyond expression.

Pursuit and Possession. B. J. Burdette. People are coming “out of the dust of the town of the king” into the dust of the country roads just now. Some of the city people who come out are very city people, especially the children. The other day I saw a little fellow of about six years. Pale-faced; his neck was thin and his legs were not the legs of the farm boy. He was trying to catch some lumbering insect that was hovering over the red clover by the roadsido. His pale cheeks flashed a little with pleasure and the glow of exercise. Several times his extended hands nearly closed on the flattering piby, but as often h chided him. But at last it settled on a clover top, and the lad, with a quick sweep of hiß hands and a cry of delight, gathered it in. And then he lot go of it. He did not hold and admire it; he did not crush its gauzy wings nor rub tho hard-earned pollen from its busy legs. He just let it eo, and a* it went he made the welkin ring with both hands, not with the glad anthems of the free; not with the warbling songs of joy that mock the chorus of the summer birds; not with the inspiring cade-trey of the songs of war; oh, net He didn't sing my distinguishable words, and he didn’t appeSr’to beat an particular about the arrangement of the. music. He only “hollered.” He wailed and wept and ran for the house, and would not stop to let me pot mud oa his hand, although mud is better than ammonia. Poor boy. But he will never do it again. Dearly beloved,>l, too, have caught bumble bees in my bare head when 1 was older than that boy, and even when I rather mistrusted they were bumble bees when I was after them. It may be that eorae members es this congregation may remember to have picked up some things they afterwards most earnestly wished they had left alone. Not infrequently does pleasure depart with possession. Not rarely do men seek for things which they do bet desire to find. How oftoa when, allured by the humming bird that passes between the sunlight and the rose, itself a quivering flash of light, a fluttering, singing flower, de our hands clone eagerly upon it. only to find, alas! it is only a humming bird with a steel-probe and hod km manufactory located in its taiL The moral of all this is obvious. There is no extra change for it Itgoee right in with the regular subscription. Be wise, oh, child es vaaity; ait in the shade and watch with equal pleasure the humming bee and the bumble bird, and if you must catch them, wait till tho cold weather comes and they freetse to death. ‘•One Hail Drives Out Axethor,” Is a French saying that finds exemplification in the way one disease wfll substitute itself for another and graver one, in very many cases. Liver disease, for instance, will soon induce blood disorders, throat ailments, skin affoettona, and, eventually, booausc of ijnpovwiaifßd-lrijVpd, con sumption itself, unless. Wtooa*. H'flte framed in its TOoipuMicy fitul early "Peta (hM, ■ilmw-tsTuSompli-hinj, I, rapid

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