Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 16 August 1884 — Page 11

Sunrise. The low-browed night, with all her traiiq Retires into the west; Her dark attendants fold their wings, And vanish to their rest; The slightest tinge of mellow light {Steals thro' the woodland's orest. The cool, fresh air. from out the east, Breathes thro’ the trembling leaves, And seems to bring ten thousand rays Os light, like golden sheaves, And thread them thro' each fairy loom Where’er a spirit weaves. For every leaf that clothes the tree, Each blade of waving com, The breeze that o’er the clover comes, The very light of morn, Seem all instinct, as if a soul Into each one were bom. But yonder, where the eastern sky Down o'er the valley bends, Where, hidden half by grasses tall, The laughing brooklet wends, A scene bursts on our raptured sight That all things else transcends. That cloud, all wreathed In shinir No brush, nor poet's pen Can trace upon the whitened sheo For other eyes—but then, We all may see, and in our souls QOUlSProduce the scene again. Those glowing clouds that hem the vale, Where floats the morning mist, Are but the outer battlements Os Heaven, climbed and kissed By spirits rising from the earth, Beyond them to exist. And if we could but look beyond. Across that shining wall, Our eyes would see what mortal eyes Should never see at all, The glories of that other land, Whose light doth o'er us fall. —Edmond B. Trueblood. •‘O Gentle Shade of Qniet Woods!” O, gentle shade of qniet woods, Where nature in profusion glows, I love the sacred void that throws Sweet music o'er thy solitudes! Within thine arms the weary heart Is hidden from the toils of men; And pleasure makes ambition start Into a nobler life again. Among the fragrant shadows throng, With all the riches of their truth. Glad echoes from the days of youth And mingle into laughing song; While angel fingers touch the keys Which slumber in the silent breast, Till raem'ry wakes her lullabies And childhood’s fancies rock to rest. Again the hours of early joy Upon the aged years intrude And rise amid the summer wood The golden dreaminga of the boy; The strain of life again is new With notes of gladness over-wild. While visions of success imbue The snowy bosom of the child. Enchanted choirs of baby years, Sweet dirges from the cradle's keys, The richness of your harmonies Impels my secret soul to tears! The roses of my fancies fade Into the dust of wicked strife. And all the promise boyhood made Has proved the desert of my life. O, fragrant woods of happy times, Fair children of the glowing days, How sweet the music of >our lays Is mingled into fairy chimes! Ye lisp again the songs of yore, The stories of my infant years, And throw a sweeter cadence o’er My hoary sorrows and my tears. Hillsboro, Ind. —Freeman E. Miller.

A Quests Face. When I am dead, my friend, and covered close, So not remember me with grief and tears; I shall not feel hot winds nor piled-up snows, Nor sorrows that fill in the passing years. It will not make my cold heart thrill to know That thy sweet life for me has sadder grown; So catch the gleams of sunshine ere they go. Could I have made them brighter had I known! Think of me at my best, if thou wilt think; Not when in summer's richest, brightest tone, But when the still and quiet evenings sink Into the dreamless rest so like my own. And do not wrap thyself in robes of gray, Nor close thy heart on light to gain release. I would not have thee mourn thro' life and say, M I came from martyrdom unto this peace." The Shy Little Girl. I saw a maiden on the train, Beneath her father’s watchful eye; Her lashes droop’d in bashful glance, Demure was she, and very shy. Her coyness every charm enhanced, Such eyes, such hair, such teeth of pearl; I sat adoring and entranced, Done to death by the shy little girl. I saw a maiden on the beach, Papa was dozing far away; Beneath a parasol she sat, And by her side a lover lay; Her timid waist his arm enclasped; His fingers toyed each bashful ourl; Wildly I gazed and madly gasped— Heavens! 'twas she; the shy little girl! Indianapolis. x. o. Spoken After Sorrow. I know of something sweeter than the chime Os fairy bells that run Down mellow winds; oh, fairer than the time You sing about, in happy, broken rhyme, Or butterflies and sun. But oh, as many fabled leagues away As the To-morrow, when the east breaks gray, Is this which lies, somewhere most still and far, Between the sunset and the dawn's last star, And known as Yesterday. I know of something better, dearer too, Than this first rose you hold. All sweet with June, and dainty with the dew, The summer's golden promise breathing through Its white leaves' tender fold; Oh, fairer, when the late winds, gathering slow Behind the night, shall, moaning sad and low Across the world, make all its music dumb. Oh, dearer than the earliest rose to come, Will be the last to go. I know of something sadder than this nest Os broken eggs you bring, With such sweet trouble stirring at your breast For love uudone; the mother bird’s unrest, That, yesterday could sing. My little child, too grieved to want my kiss, Do I forget the sweetness they will miss Who built the home? My heart with yours makes moan; But oh, that nest from which the birds have flown lit sadder far than this. —Juliet O. Marsh, In September Harper's. Woos of the French Girls. Onlda’s Moralislngs. It is hard for a girl of noble blood and no dowry to end otherwise in Prance than in a convent The men who ought to marry her—her equals—will marry instead some Americans with dollars, whose fathers were stokers or pork-butchers. Pr is a fact which can be proven by a single trial that the flavor given to cakes, puddings, creams and sauces by Dr. Price’s Special Flavoring Extracts is as natural as the fruit from fsfriuch they are made. Dr. Price’s for creams, cakes, etc., are as much unliko, in delicate flavor tnnd strength, the obeap extracts, as can possibly h* imagined.

MLLE. EULALIE. Belgravia. Hugh Portledown had had a delightful sixweeks of it, beginning at eay Dieppe, and ending at noisy Cherbourg. And now at last it was all well over, and the time had come when he must go back to smoky Bristol and the dull drudgery of the western circuit. “I’ve half a mind to throw the thing up altogether," Hugh said to himself pettishly, “and come abroad for good to live as well as I can upon my little bit of private income." (Four hundred a year is not so bad, after all, for a young man to live upon.) It was in the salle a-manger of the Hotel des Deux Mondes at bustling Cherbourg that Hugh Portledown came (momentarily) to this heroic resolution. The next minute he had forgotten all about it, and was lustily calling the cleanshaven garcon to produce the note. That document duly arrived in five minutes, a goodly roll of paper indeed, and it must be acknowledged that even Hugh Portledown, who was a cheery, happy-go-lucky fellow of the jolliest sort, did look just a trifle surprised when he glanced at the total duly inscribed in very French figures at the bottom of the long column. “Seventy-five francs,” he said to himself, a little aghast “Seventy-five francs for three days’ entertainment for a single man (thank goodness I haven’t married one of these pretty Norman girls!)—why, upon my soul, I don’t believe I shall have enough money left to pay my way back to Bristol. Let me see. Seventy-five is three pounds one, two, three, sou six. Four, seventeen, six. Through ticket to Bristol, as per advertisement, one pound sixteen; necessary gratuity to the ruffian, Alphonse, one franc twenty-five; leaves me exactly sixpence to pay all incidental expenses on my return journey. Well, it's a blessed thing I can manage to do that much. Confoundedly awkward it would have been if I’d run short altogether. Great mistake in going a trip away from home not to take ten pounds in your Docket beyond the furthest possible estimate of your total expenditure. I vow I'll never do It again; and yet, it’s a curious fact in the history of' humanity that one always does vow one won’t repeat these unpleasant experiences, only to repeat forthwith, like a blockhead. on the earliest feasible opportunity. Who defined man, I wonder, as a two-legged rational animal? Two-legged, if you will (except at Chelsea Hospital), but as to rational, why, the thing’s absurd. Otherwise, how could I have como to leave myself with only sixpence to pay all my sundry expenses on the way back to that detestable Bristol?” He counted out the 75 francs ruefully, paid the smiling Alphonse his one twenty-five, and sallied forth, travel-ing-bag in hand, out into the delicious summer evening, and down to the office of the steamboats, which at that.time used to be run nightly between Cherbourg and Poole, in Dorsetshire. “I shan’t be able to afford a berth,” he said to himself, gruesomely; “but anyway, it’s a splendid night—full moon, and sea like a millpond—and, after all, one might do worse than spend a July evening looking over into the reflection of the stars on that beautiful water. Here goes, then; first cabin and third-class to Bristol, £1 16. Thank goodness, I needn't go second cabin. I’m not particular, but I draw a line at second-class on board a steamer. The sea’s bad enough in any case, and doesn't require to be made worse by the combined smell of an oily engine and bad tobacco.” Hugh paid his fare boldly, with the air of a man who had several pounds in reserve in case he wants them, and walked aboard at once to secure himself a comfortable corner before the arrival of the train from Caen and Paris. “If I’ve got to sit up all night," he thought, “I may as well do it as conveniently as possible.” So he chose a nice corner on deck, with a padded seat, and laid his bag there to keep the place for him, while he paced up and down and took a bird's-eye view of the situation. There was hardly anybody on board as yet, for mbst of the passengers came by the Paris train; but one young lady, a pretty French girl with a smiling round face, was standing by the side of the paddle-box, watching the hurry and scurry on shore, where a crowd of douaniers, sailors and fishermen were fighting out that inevitable battle which rages ceaselessly night and day at all French seaports. She held a bundle of rugs in her hand, and on the loose parchment label that hung pensile from the end Hugh could distinctly read, in a large, round, French schoolS'rl sort of a hand, the neat inscription. “Mile. ulalie Leruth, ehez Miss Spurter. The Seminary for Young Ladies, Weston super-Mare." Hugh felt a slight pang of remorse as he read that tell-tale little address, and thought to himself of the sort of reception Mademoiselle Eulalie Leruth (what a charming namqj) was likely to obtain at the hands of his ingenuous young countrywomen. Poor little thing, it was quite clear that she was going to be a French governess in England, and that this was her first venture beyond the stormy channel. (The sea was actually at that moment like a sheet of glass; but in a compassionate frttme of mind one always makes the worst, mentally, of all barriers of separation which divide the poor "exile from his or her beloved fatherland.) She was so pretty and nervous and shrinking too; when Hugh’s eyes happened to meet hers, she blushed a bright red immediately, with the naive instinctive modesty of a bienelevee French young lady. Hugh was a chivalrous, tender-hearted sort of fellow, and he blushed in return (though not visible to the naked eye) to think of the way that delicate, dainty, round-faced little Norman girl would be harried and worried half out of her life by his rough young fellow-citizenesses. Looking with a prophetic eye into the immediate future, Hugh Portledown felt so thoroughly sorry for the poor little thing that he was half inclined, then and there, to go up to her and say iD a fatherly fashion (young men of twenty-seven are always so fatherly to girls of eighteen): “My dear lady,” or rather, “Madame, allow me to beg of you not to submit yourself to the treatment you are sure to experience from the •untutored young savages of the Somersetshire marshes.” However, his courage failed him on this count, and he contented himself with exercising a fatherly supervision over Mademoiselle Eulalie from afar. Presently his unsuspecting protege, seeing Hugh’s eyes bent closely upon her beyond what was convenable, stepped to the top of the com-panion-ladder and began an ineffectual attempt at conversation with the fat stewardess. The stewardess, of course, having only been engaged fSr twenty-two years in visiting French ports, couldn’t speak a single word of their outlandish furren lingo, and Mademoiselle Eulalie was on the point of giving up the endeavor in despair, when Hugh, raising his hat with a courtesy that was more than English (Eulalie thought), intervened to act as interpreter. “Mademoiselle will pardon me," he said, advancing toward her politely, “but she is unable to make herself understood to my compatriot, I fear. My compatriots generally, one must confess, mademoiselle, do not speak foreign languages with ease or fluency. Mademoiselle, on her part, does not speak English it seems to me; will she premit me to explain to the stewardess what it is she required?” Mademoiselle Leruth blushed still more violently. Had not that dear grandpapa solemnly abjured her that very morning, when he consigned her trembling to the diligence from Gruch-les-Greville for Cherbourg, that on no account was she to hold communication with any monsieur whatsoever, and least of all with a monsieur Anglais, until she had reached in safety the hospitable roof of Mees Spoortare, Westonne superre Mare?—“for those English, look you, Eulalie, are the most terriblo dragons that one can imagine.” And now, at the exact outset of her journey, had not one of these aggressive and dangerous beings positively attacked her under the guise of a polite inquiry? MUe. Leruth blushed a third time merely to think of it And yet, though his accent was, she acknowledged, just a trifle hard and Britannic, this terrible Briton certainly spoke her beautiful language with ease and readiness. He seemed anxious to assist her. Could that dear grandpapa be wrong after all? Was it absolutely certain that every monsieur Anglais was a complete ogre, or might it be possible that some few among them were really polite and attentive? In any case, Mile. Eulalie couldn’t well turn away without even thanking him; so she said timidly, with a little curtesy, "I thank you, monsieur, but it was really no matter. I merely addressed myself to the stewardess by way of society and conversation. I need not trouble you to interpret for me." Hugh saw from her manner that she meant these words as a dismissal, and he accepted

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 1884.

them as such; so he merely raised his hat again (“exactly like a Frenchman,” thought Eulalie) and retired aft, just sa\kng as he did so, “If mademoiselle should have need of my assistance as interpreter hereafter, I shall be happy to afford it” And then he strolled away carelessly, leaving his bag safely ensconced in the comfortable corner. Presently the Paris train arrived, and there was a great noise of passengers coming on board with heavy boxes and innumerable packages. In a few minutes all the seats on deck were fully occupied, and Hugh congratulated himself upon having secured beforehand the very best place on the entire steamer. The warning bells rang, the captain shouted wildly from the bridge, the men on the pier shrieked and gesticulated after their kind, and in two minutes more the Cygnet was plowing her way stoutly through the’ sea, with her stern toward the Digue and her nose toward the invisible coast of Dorsetshire. Still, Hugh couldn't take his eyes off pretty little Mile. Eulalie. She was standing all the time near the paddle-box, watching the white foam from the wheels, and perhaps crying a little, Hugh imagined, about the good people she had left behind at Gruchy-les-Gre-ville. (Not that Hugh then knew of the very existence of Gruchy—but that is anticipating.) Well, after twenty minutes or so, the young lady began to get tired', and turned round to look for a seat. Alas for the improvidence of early youth! they were already taken. Mile. Eulalie walked up and down the center row twice, and looked inquiringly toward the men who Ailed them; but nobody stirred. Good, solid, stout, middle-aged Englishmen, could she have imagined you were really going to give up your own places for a pretty French girl’s accommodation? Mile. Eulalie began to sigh pensively. She had taken no berth; must she then stand by the paddle-box an entire evening? Hugh Portledown saw her udfeasy little glance, and, even at the the risk of offending her, rose from his carefully-secured seat and motioned her into it. “Mademoiselle is looking for a place,” he said hastily; “mademoiselle will permit me?” Eulalie smiled, and of course blushed again. What a divine little trick of blushing she had got, to be sure. “Monsieur is very good,” she answered, “but he will require the place himself. Do not derange yourself, I beg of you;” for she was half afraid that this monsieur with the handsome mustache was really making a deliberate attempt to get her into a conversation, and was not that the very thing her good grandpa had specially warned her against? “Not at all,” Hugh replied, motioning her into the comfortable corner, so that (were it but to avoid unseemly higgling over it) she was obliged to accept his offer. “It will not be for long, mademoiselle. You will soon be goiug down to claim your berth, no doubt, and then I can resume the position.” “But I have no berth,” Eulalie put in quickly —fate thus compelling her to continue the dangerous dialogue. “I mean to pass the night on deck; the night is so cool, so tranquil; and I can’t turn monsieur out of the place he has secured for himself for the whole evening.” “Pray don’t trouble about it,” Hugh answered, with a smile; “I can find another by-and-by, when some of these bears go down stairs for the night.” And then, being too much of a gentleman to force his society further upon her, he walked off again and took up Eulalie’s previous place beside the paddle-box. “Poor thing,” he thought to himself, “she can’t afford to take a berth, even. I’m awfully sorry for her. Pretty, too; decidedly pretty; and what a sweet, musical voice! Going to be a governess—h’m. What stupid fools they must be over in Normandy. Why didn’t some fellow or other go and marry her, I should like to know, instead of sending her about her business, woe trembling little thing that she is, to teach French to a pack of jealous English school girls? Had no dot, I suppose; beastly mercenary fel lows, those young bourgeois Frenchman. Not got a quarter of an ounce of sentiment among the whole lot of them.” By and by the other passengers began to drop off, one by one, until at last Hugh and Eulalie were left alone on deck to their own devices. Nobody else was going to sit it out, apparently. This was decidedly awkward. The night was so calm, the moon so full and poetical, the two young people so exceedingly interesting. “Upon my word,” thought Hugh, “the situation is really becoming quite romantic.” Howsoever, as mademoiselle would have none of him, he didn’t care to try any further conversation; so he rolled his light rug carefully around him and took up his temporary abode at the very site end of the cushioned seat, Eulalie seemed to thiuk the rug a good idea, for she took up her own bundle shortly after and began to slowly unstrap it But the bundle had b,een strapped very tight indeed by that good grandpapa kneeling on it and pulling with all his might and main, and, let her tug at it as best she might, she couldn’t undo the tongue of the buckle. Hugh watched her efforts philosophically for at least two minutes (Greenwich time), until he could stand it no longer. “Mademoiselle must really exeuse me again," he said, rising; “but I think I can undo that rug for her.” Mademoiselle laughed nervously, and handed the bundle to tho terrible dragon. The terrible dragon topk it lightly, and with a single pull undid the buckle. “It was drawn very tight,” he said as he unrolled the shawls. “Ah, yes,” answered Eulalie simply, half crying at the thought “It was done with all his force by that dear grandpapa.” Hugh ventured to place one shawl around her shoulders, and to lay another one quietly across her knees. Mademoiselle did not resist his attention; she was beginning to reflect that perhaps even in England some young people may be perfectly convenable. “Thank you,” she said quite seriously, “you are very kind. I’m afraid I’m giving you a lot of trouble." “Not at all, Mademoiselle Leruth,” Hugh answered, once more raising his hat, and quite unconsciously using the name he had seen upon the label on the bundle. He had thought of her by that name all along, and he said it out now without even ever thinking of it. “How, monsieur!” Eulalie cried, starting with surprise. “You know my name, then? You have seen me? You have been at Gruchy?” ‘ ‘No, mademoiselle, I have not boen at Gruchy, though I have just passed through the Cotentin on foot, and admired much your beautiful paysage. But I knew your name quite accidentally, having seen it on your baggage.” Eulalie sighed. “Ah!” she said, “I thought you knew Gruchy—that lovely village. But you have seen the Contentin, and you admire it. Ah, yes; it is beautiful. I left Gruchy only this morning.” “And you are going to England to be a governess?” Hugh said interrogatively. “But, Monsieur, you are a magician! You know everything Yes; Igoto be a governess; but how on earth did you ever find it out?” “Oh, mademoiselle, nothing could be easier. Your label was addressed to .Miss Spurter’s, Weston.” “You know Mees Spoortare, then? She is of your country?’ “No; I don’t know her, but I saw she kept a ladies’ school. So many young French ladies come to England to be governesses; and I’m afraid they don’t always like our nation.” And so the conversation got fairly rolling, before Eulalie herself was half aware of it Presently Hugh brought a vacant stool over near mademoiselle, and, seating himself on it, settled down for a long talk. Mademoiselle noticed this action with alarm, and blushed again violently (but blushes don’t show by moonlight). Clearly she had forgotten all that that dear grandpapa had said to her on that important subject. However, it was too late to draw back now; and besides, the monsieur was so agreeable. Eleven o’clock is a very confidential hour; I can’t say why, but experience has demonstrated the fact that if you are talking to the merest stranger after 11 has struck you somehow grow very confidential. Mademoiselle Eulalie did, at anv rate. She began telling Hugh a little about herself, and her grandpapa, and Gruchy; and Hugh, being really interested (for a pretty girl, it may be commonly observed, is really a very interesting subject of conversation), drew her on to tell him her<simple history, of which, to say the truth, there was hardly any. She was an orphan—that was all—and she had lived with her grandparents daring the time she was being educated, and now she was going to England to be a governess. And yet Mademoiselle Eulalie took about an hour to tell this simple story, Sicced out with various information about that ear grandpapa, and that dear grandmamma, and tne lovely country all around Gruchy. Hugh noticed that all the time while Mademoiselle Eulalie was talking to him she clasped her little- purse tightly in one hand, as the grandpapa had specially enjoined upon her. “Mind, you don’t put it into your pocket,” he had told her, “for in England there are a great many pickpockets, against whom you must be on your guard." And though Eulalie hadn’t followed his

advice about not conversing with the monsieurs, she had made up for it by holding as hard as she could to her precious purse. By-and-by, mademoiselle began to shiver. The night, in fact, was getting cold, and even through her rugs she felt it chilly. “Let us get up and walk a little,” Hugh suggested politely. “That will warm mademoisselle most assuredly.” Mademoiselle, now completely demoralized, accepted the suggestion, and paced the deck briskly by Hugh’s side. They walked up and down till they were fairly tired, and then Eulalie, who had got back to Gruchy and the cure, stood for a while by the gunwale, looking over once more into the water, whitened by the paddle-wheels and gleaming beautifully in the clear moonlight. She leant for a minute or two by the gunwale, with her hands both hanging over listlessly; when, all of a sudden, there was a slight lurch, a cry, a splash, a glimpse of some small object falling into the water; and Eulalie wrung her hands piteously, exclaiming, like a tragedy queen, “I have lost my purse!” Hugh was really distressed at this untoward accident. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” he cried quickly. “Was there much in it?” “Twenty francs,”Mademoiselle Eulaliesobbed °ut bitterly, again wringing her pretty little ungloved hands; “and it was all the money I had with me.” “If mademoiselle will permit me—” Hugh began, and suddenly broke off. He was about to add, “I shall be proud to let her consider my purse as her own until she reaches her destination.” On tho spur of the moment ho had thought of lending her a sovereign, and managing so to arrange that she couldn’t return it to him; but there, even as he spoke, he bethought himself of that wretched sixpence, and checked himself immediately with a disagreeable effort. “Have you paid for your ticket as far as Weston?’ ’ he asked. “Yes, monsieur." “Well, that's well, at any rate,” Hugh said, “otherwise,” he could add this more safely now, "I should have been delighted to lend you whatever you required.” Winch was perfectly true, as far as it went, though Hugh did add to himself the mental reservation, “If I had it with me” - “You are very kind, monsieur," the poor girl replied, and then relapsed into complete silence. It Was perfectly clear that the loss of that poor little twenty francs had rendered her for the moment wholly inconsolable. Hugh pitied the poor girl from the bottom of his heart. Indeed, as he luckily knew her address at Weston, he made up his mind that the moment he returned to Bristol ho would send her twenty francs anonymously, care of Miss Spurter, and concoct some cock-and-bull story about its having been found in a purse clinging to a hawser, or something else equally harmless and impossible. After that, the conversation flagged decidedly. It was getting toward the small hours of the morning; and Eulalie, between grief and sleepiness, dozed off at last with her rugs wrapped warmly around her, and didn’t fully wake up again until 6 o’clock the next morning. Candor compels me to confess that Hugh Portledown very shortly followed her example. When they woke up again, they were nearing the low white cliffs outside Poole Harbor, lighted up by a magnificent sunrise. Hugh found his services as interpreter actively called into requisition at last for Mademoiselle Eulalie’s benefit. He arranged matters amicably with the custom house officers (though mademoiselle was inclined to be a little indignant when the officer inquired whether she had any tobacco or spirits in her little portmanteau), and he saw her safe up to the railway station. Then, for the last time, as he thought, he raised his hat, and said to her a little regretfully, “Bon jour, mademoiselle. An revoir. I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you any further for the present, I fear; for Igo to Bristol hence by the third class,” Mademoiselle Eulalie blushed several shades deeper than she had ever hitherto done, and answered demurely, “I also have a ticket for the troisieme. Do Igo to Westoune by the same train as you do to Bristol, monsieur?’ “Certainly,” Hugh replied. “And, in that case, I may perhaps have the pleasure of seeing you to your destination.” Mademoiselle threw prudence and that good grandpapa to the winds. “You are very complaisant, monsieur,” she answered. “I shall be grateful for your protection.” The fact is, she was beginning to believe that whatever might be the case with the English generally, Hugh Portledown, at least, was no such very terrible dragon. They got into a carriage together, all the rest of the places being filled by rough working people, and talked away quite volubly to one another all the way to Highbridge Junction. Hugh was amused to see that the other occupants of the carriage took them both for some kind of foreigners who didn’t understand English, and commented upon them freely enough for some time without the faintest suspicion that either of the pair could understand them. “Newly marriedj I take it. ’Enery,” one man said, nudging his fellow roughly. “Not even married yet,” ’Enery answered with a vulgar leer; “ ’e's a precious sight too perlite to ’er, an’ she’s a deal too much in the bloomin’ modesty line for a married woman.” Hugh turned around to the fellow severely. “It would be more becoming in you,” he said in a stern voice, speaking for the first time in English, “not to criticise ladies who are traveling in the same carriage with you, at least in their presence.” The man shrank back astonished, and held his peace without even a word of apology. Mile. Eulalie didn't know of course, exactly what had happened; but she could see that the stranger had been saying something or other rude about her, and that Hugh had given the man something he didn't like in return; and she felt duly grateful for it. Really, after all. these English are not all of them such abandoned ruffians as that dear grandpapa had led her to suppose. Hour after hour wore slowly away, and at last tire train reached Highbridge Junction. As yet Hugh had had no breakfast, and he strongly suspected that Mile. Eulalie had had none either. At Highbridge there might be time to get six-pennyworth of buns or biscuits, and though three currant buns per person is not exactly a magnificent repast, it is at any rate better than nothing. So Hugh decided that as soon as he got there he would invest his one remaining sixpence in those cheap and filling edibles, and delicately offer half of them to Mile. Eulalie. But as the train drew up at Highbridge Junction, Hugh Portledown beheld before him a truly dismal sight. The 12:14 for Bristol, which they had expected to catch, was moving out of the station even as they entered it. Hugh jumped out (with gross disregard of the company’s by-laws) before the train had come to rest, in the vain endeavor to get the guard of the 12:14 to pull it up; but no, that cruel guard took no notice, and the Great Western engine puffed and snorted away, heedless of his shouts, till it disappeared in the dim distance across the wide level. “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” Hugh exclaimed idiomatically. “Porter, when’s the next train for Bristol?” “At 4:10, sir,” answered the porter. Hugh ran back with the dismal news to his pretty companion. “I regret to say, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that the train on the other line has gone on without us, and that we have to wait at this place for four hours. ” Mile. Eulalie blushed and stammered. “In that case, monsieur,” she said hesitatingly, “you know the misfortune I had with my purse. I have not yet breakfasted. Would you mind being so kind as to lend me some few francs to procure a light dejeuner?” Hugh was beside himself with embarrassment. “With pleasure, mademoiselle,” he answered, smiling as best he might; “but will you excuse me for a few seconds?—Here, porter, I say, is there such a thing as a pawnbroker's in this confounded placet” And he took out his watch and looked at it abstractedly, as though he were merely consulting the time for astronomical purposes. “After all," he thought, “I could raise a couple of pounds on it, ana ask the pawnbroker to send on the thing to Bristol on receipt of a letter. Better anything than that poor little girl should go getting faint for want of a breakfast” “No, Mister." tho porter answered offensively, in a very altered tone (he suspected Hugh, from his question about a pawnbroker, of the heinous crime of being poor); “there ain't nothin’ at all 'ere, not to speak of, excep’ a station an' a public ’ouse.” Hugh went back miserably to his pretty French girl. There was nothing left Dut to make a clean breast of it “Mademoiselle,” he said, “the fact is this. I have been abroad on a tour in your beautiful country for a week or two, and just at the end I have run short of money. I have nothing left except exactly twelve sous. Let us be candid with one another. I have had no breakfast and you have had none. We will buy two rolls with those twelve sou a, and a glass

of milk. It will serve for a breakfast, and we must share it” Mademoiselle laughed and Hugh laughed. There was nothing else to be done for it. They went into the refreshment-room and ate their humble breakfast, each of them drinking out of the same glass by turns (Mademoiselle first, of course, and Hugh was now far enough gone to feel a little thrill of rapture when his lips pressed where hers had been). After they had finished, they walked up and down outside, much observed of the three young women in the refreshment-room, and went on talking volubly to one another. It's positively astonishing how intimate two young people can get in two days spent thus together. Mademoiselle had quite lost her dread of the terrible Englishman by this time, and even ventured to laugh at him a little because, though his accent was generally good, his R’s were of the usual weak-kneed, insular description. “R-r-roll them, Monsieur,” she said laughing. “R-r-roll them as 1 do.” “So you are beginning to give lessons to the natives already!” Hugh said, smiling in return. Just at that minute the 1:20 train arrived at the station, and who should Hugh see at the window of a first class carriage but his friend Colonel Montague, on his way down to Plymouth “Mademoiselle,” he cried, “I see a friend! Nous voila suaves.” Ho rushed up to the window excitedly and called out: “Hullo, Montague, this is luck. Just home from the Continent, and stuck hero without any tin to get a dinner. Can you lend me a couple of sovereigns?” The Colonel pulled out his purse and took two pounds from it. “Send them back to me at the club at Plymouth," ho said. Hugh thanked him and pocketed the sovereigns with the feelings of a man who has come into sudden wealth after the lowest depths of poverty. “And now, mademoiselle,” he said, “we will go and have some dinner.” “Beg pardon, sir,” the porter put in, once more obsequious (for he had heard it all and saw that the gentleman was on intimate terms with a first class passenger), “they can give you a very good dinner at the King's 'Ead.” Hugh pushed past him without a word, and took Mile. Eulalie into the refreshment room. There they soon ordered a cold chicken and a bottle of claret, and fell to with the appetite of youthful hunger. Whether it was the claret, or the tete-a-tete, or what it was I cannot say; but, at any rate, as soon as they had done full justice to a very plentiful luncheon, Hugh began to speak a little more seriously to Eulalie. “Mademoiselle.” he said, with a kindly smile, “I don’t recommend* you to teach my countrywomen. You will find it a very hard and thankless task. You had much better turn your thoughts elsewhere.” “But monsieur,” Eulalie said, looking prettier than ever, “what can I do? I am poor. I am educated for a governess. I have uotliiDg else to turn to.” “Mademoiselle,” Hugh went on, “you have youth and beauty. Why do you not think of marriage?” “Oh, fie, monsieur." Eulalie murmured, casting down her eyes. (Were they then, after all, universally such dragons, these English?) “Mademoiselle," Hugh said in a low voice, bending closer, “permit me to explain myself. lam an advocate. I live at Bristol. I have means of my own. lam prepared to go back to Normandy, if you wish, and explain to this good grandpapa at Gruchy * * * Mile. Eulalie, I love you * * * ” “Monsieur!” said MUe. Eulalie. I draw a veil over the remainder of that interview. I will merely add, in fact, that before the train started for Bristol Hugh and Eulalie had arranged between them that Eulalie should go for the present to Miss Spurter’s; but that Hugh should shortly come over and see her, and give proofs of his really being the person he represented himself to be. He did go over before long, and Eulalie went shortly after to stop with Hugh’s mother at Clifton; aud the good grandpapa received a visit from Hugh at Gruchy, and declared himself perfectly satisfied that he was a person of honor, and before six months were out the affaire Eulalie was settled to the universal satisfaction of everybody concerned. Hugh Portledown has stuck to the bar (where he is doing remarkably well, by the way), and Mrs. Hugh tells me, whenever I visit them at Clifton nowadays. that her husband and myself are the only two Englishmen she ever knew who could roll their R's with perfect accuracy. But then, you know, Mrs. Hugh was always such a delightful little humbug.

Idle Words. O idle words! Why will ve never die. But float forever in the sky, Dimming the stars that shine in memory, Destroying hope and causing lovo from earth to flee, 111-omened birds. O idle words! Preying upon the heart, Leaving with wounds a deathly smart; Expiring breath that taints the very air, Will ye forever leave your victims to despair? 111-omened birds. O idle words! How many are the tears That ye have caused to flow; the fears Ye have begot and made to mountains grow, Crushing the innocent beneath a weight of woe. 111-omened birds. O idle words! Your flight is ever on,, In heaven darkening the sun; By weary journeyings withont delay, To wend your dreary way unto the judgment day, 111-omened birds. Every Other Saturday. Unnatural Natural History. All the Year Round. The pelican feeds its young with the life-blood from its own bleeding bosom. This is a beautiful mistake that will live forever in symbol and legend. The 1 ‘real live” pelican has a large bag under ber unwieldy beak, and, digging-with the beak towards the breast, she feeds her brood and Soils her feathers with red-stained tidbits of fish from the bag. The nightingale leans her breast against a thorn and sings in pain. In the old poets not only has she a thorn in her breast, but she pats it there. Instead of being the voice of lonely love she ought to be the emblem of those discontented people, who, in a position enviable to others, first make their own troubles and then spend their lives in self-commiseration. Os course the nightingale is not such a fool as she looks in poetry. Swans are said to sing a death-song; this is poetry too. But they are hatched during the thunder; and this is prose—the belief of otherwise sensible folk. Crows and curlews hate each other so that their eggs put in the same nest will all burst. Talking of epgs, the cock of the south of England lays an egg when the hen has ceased laying; it is a small insignificant affair, with no yolk in. it, clearly an amateur attempt. These cocks’ eggs are to be found in Sussex, if nowhere else. As we have got to the poultry-yard lei Job’s turkey have a word. The American’s have the honor of discovering that ill-conditioned bird. They say “as poor as Job’s turkey, that had to lean against a fence to gobble,” but there we must leave him, as he does noi strictly belong to us. The British Hotel. London Wrrld. The ensuing autumn will probably bo the finest season ever known for the proprietors of British hotels. Let us hope that the landlords will do something to deserve this extraordinary bit of good fortune, and abolish some ofl their customary extortionate charges. The fine of sixpence for every one who has an ordinary “tub” in his bed-room is a disgraceful imposition, and ought to he at once discontinued. Since Albert Smith wrote, many years ago, his “English Hotel Nuisance," attendance has been charged in the bill. This means that you have to pay double for Attendance which should cost nothing. The old systom, after all, was the best You tipped the servants for services rendered, and they were content Now, you tip the landlord and the servants; neither are satisfied, and you seldom get proper attention. In addition to this, the commissariat of most hotels throughout Great Britain wants improving, and their tariff is in need of revision. Many who long suffered from indescribable feelings of distress, lame back, aching joints, sores, swellings, weakness of the urinary anddifestive organs, unnatural feelings of weariness, eadache, nervousness, despondency, sleeplessness, disturbing dreams, partial insanity, etc., after doctoring liver, kidneys, nerves and brain with the various quack nostrums of the day, and being nearly frightened to death by their alarm ing advertisements, quietly began using Dr. Guysott's Yellow Dock and Sarsaparilla aud were agreeably surprised to quickly find themselves restored to perfect health.

Dana Platt of Mac-o-choe. i. Donn Piatt—of Mac-o-chee,— Not the one of History, Who, with flaming tongue and pen Scathes the vanities of men; Not the one whose biting wit Cuts pretense, and etches it On the brazen brow that dares Filch the laurel that it wears: Not the Doun Piatt whose praise Echoes in the noisy ways Os the faction, onward led By the statesman:—but, instead, Give the simple man to me,— Doun Piatt of Mac-o-chee! u. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! Branches of the old oak tree, Drajie him royally in fine Purple shade and golden shine! Emerald plush of sloping !awn, Be the throne he sits upon! Ami, O summer sunset, thou Be his crown, and gild a brow Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed By the breezes, mellow palmed As Erata’s white hand, agleam On the forehead of a dream.— So forever rule o’er me, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! 111. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee, Through a lilied memory Plays the wayward little creek Round thy home, at hide and-seek; And I see and hear it, still Romping round the wooded hill— Till its laugh-and-babblc blends With the silence while it sends Glances back to kiss the sight, In its babyish delight, Ere it strays amid the gloom Os the glens that burst in bloom Ot the rarest rhyme for thee, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! IV. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! What a darling destiny Has been mine—to meet him there— Lolling in an easy chair On the terrace, while he told Reminiscences of old— Letting my aigar die out, Hearing poems talked about; And entranced to hear him say Gentle things of Thackeray, Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, Known to him as host and guest — Known to him as he to me— Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! —James Whitcomb liiley. THE DAY’S HUMOR. I kissed her hand and sped away, With winged feet that dare not stay Where honeyed lips a pitfall made For stern Decorum, primly staid, And cruel Cupids ambushed lay. Oft wondered shall I dream and say: “Might I have kissed her lips that day When tempted a#re —-yet half afraid— I kissed her hand!” “Silence Is Golden.” Aunt—“ Has any one been at these preserves?” Dead silence around the table. Aunt—“ Have you touched them, Jemmy?” Jemmy—“Pa never 'lows me to talk at dinner.”

A Slight Mistake. New York Graphic. Gimlet—By the way, I was mistaken about Oleson. Auger—ln what particular? Gimlet—You recollect I said he was a Swedenborgian. Auger—Yes. Gimlet—Well, he’s a Norwegian. Ratification Meeting. Newman Ind< pentent. “Well,” said Smith, at the conclusion of an argument, “every dog has his day.” “Select your day, then,” said Brown. “Oh, pshaw! But that reminds me that yesterday was my birthday.” “How did you celebrate it?” “Pretty well I took that terrier to an old pit in the southern part of the town, and he killed forty-two rats in fourteen minutes.” “Humph! Celebrated your birthday, did yon? I should say that your dog ratified it!” The Jarplilyg. Pittsburg Chronicle “Pah, are you waiting to hear from any one?" asked young Johnnie Sharply. “I do not know that I exactly comprehend you, my son,” replied Mr. Jarohly with some caution. “Well, you ain’t been forgotten, have you?’ “Forgotten? These questions are certainly very strange." answered the elder Jarphly suspiciously. “Why do you ask?’ “Why I heard man say this morning that the Lord only knows what you are good for, and ho won't tell, and —Ouch! Oh! Booh, hooh, hooh!” He Gave It Up. New York Life. “George, dear,” cried Eveline, “do you suppose heaven is as nice a place as people say it is?” “Well, really, Eveline, as I have never been there, I cannot say, but from what I hear the society is very select” “Everything is bright and golden there, isn’t it George?” “Yes, darling; the streets are paved with solid gold blocks; golden bricks make the houses, and only specie payments are allowed.” “Well, then, George,” archly said the maiden, as she nestled closely to her lover, “if everything is so golden, why don’t the guilty get in?” But the answer came not. He had gone to be a cowboy. Lovely Time. Philadelphia Call. Miss A.—Yes, have just returned from Canada. I had a lovely time. Met everybody in the best society. Miss B.—You like the Canadians, then? Miss A.—Oh, I did not associate wjth Canadians, but Americans. The American society there is just splendid. I had such lovely rides with Mr. Minks, the rehypothecator, and Mr. Finks, the ex-financier, and I nearly fell in love with Mr. Pinks, the handsome young embezzler, and I just wish you could have seen Mr. Binks, the eminent defaulter, lead the german. He is just too sweet for anything. A Natural Krror. New York Graphic. "I suppose you wouldn't drink either?” asked the red-nosed man of the man with a long face. “No, sir; I wouldn't.’’ “Or smoke?” ‘’No, sir; certainly not” “Or swear?” “Sir, you insult me.” “You're a daisy, old man, and you’re working it first rate. Pm all right; you needn’t be afraid of me giving you away. When do you make your first speech?” “Sir, wliat do you mean?’ returned the solemn man with amazement “Why, ain’t you a—?” “I'm a preachor of the Gospel, sir.” “Gosh! Exeu-u-use me. I thought you were an Independent” He Had Been to School, Atlanta Constitution. “Where have you been, you young rascal?” angrily demanded Fitzgoober, as Pinder came sneaking in at the back door, late in the afternoon. “Been to school,” Blowly answered Pinder, dropping his books and anxiously eyeing the the strap his father dangled so lantalizingly. “Bean to school? Oh, you little liar; do you think I’m to be fooled that easy? I went over to the academy and you hadn't been there to dav; one of the boys said you had gone fishing. Now, what have you to say to that?” Gradually edging toward the door and keeping a chair between him and his father, Pinder raised his soulful eyes, and innocently asked: “Well, pa, don’t fishes have schools?” “That tired feeliug" from which you suffer so much, particularly in the morning, is entirely thrown off by Hood’s Sarsaparilla,

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