Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 22 November 1884 — Page 11

A Song of the Seasons, Xu the fur-off land of childhood, That now. when my heart is weary, Seems cvermoro to ny memory All sunshiny and cheery, * Spring came from a fair, green island, And Summer stole o’er the meadows, While Autumn, the proud and stately, Stalked forth from the forest shadows. King Winter, away on the mountains, His palace hall uplifted, Where skies were forever stormy, And deep snows fell and drifted. Back to my soul, with these fancies, Comes some of the old glad gleaming Os island, and meadow, and forest, And mountain and mystic dreaming. And now I smile to remember — My smile is akin to sighing— A song that I would have written Had time but paused in his flying. I began a verse of welcome. “Oh spring, thou fair new comer!” At the second line she vanished, Ami in her place stood summer. Then I went to rhyming on roses, And summer, and summer fairies, But the autumn wind blew on me, And I wrote, ‘ Jiow chill the air is!” As out of a dream T wakened On winter’s dreary highland, But saw in the woodfire’s pictures The springtime’s fair green island. And year after year, so many. While tireless time is flying, And the seasons coming and going This unborn song keeps dying. I CBI.IN, lud,, Nov., 1884. Louise V. Boyd. Bereavement. When sorrow lays her touch upon the heart, And ’neath her fingers steals a nameless pain, ■ When we forget to notice days depart, And even friends who come and go again; 1 The kiss of childish lips we neither know ' Nor feel, but sit alone and hug our woe, Until with sudden strength we clasp it, when ' The inward pierce lets loose the pain, and then Wo pray. i It seems so natural to turn to Him i To find the peace that earth lias failed to hold; J Tor now, the first time, does our anguish dim, Since we can rest within a stronger fold. 'Once more a thread, of silver light breaks through, To tell of something better, sweeter too, } Than close-shut heart to love that will not go, 1 E’en when we blindly wished it to; and so We pray. In time of summer bird’s sweet, stirring lays, When fair June’s tender winds blow late and slow, When hope's young feet press light o’er thorny ways, And golden promises sing soft and low, Whenevery day that kinship claims with sorrow •In yesterday, and each with joy to-morrow, That ling’ring ever could not bring regret Jiisso easy then, love, to forget To pray. ) Pei haps, if we had but remembered in That time of happiness, the need of prayer, ' We would not now be clasping grief within Our arms, to teach us duty through despair; ! Until He, seeing that our errors grown Repentant of, restores to us our own. 0 weary heart, that hast known flood of tears, ! IBe not afraid thro’ lengths of coming years To pray. —lda May Davis.

At the Mill. The water-wheel goes round and round With mournful sighs of heavy sound, While dreary cries and weary raoaus Unite with sadly tearful groans, While dismal waves of water throw Afar the echoes of their sadness, And cadences of plaintive woe Dispel each little tone of gladness. My daily life goes round and round, While rest for me is never found; The sobbing dirges of distress Are more than songs of happiness; While shadows of despairing.doom Condem to-day and curse to-morrow, And muffled music fills the gloom Which offers anguish to my sorrow. But hope, O, heart, for future weal! The waters rest beyond the wheel; So life may sing when toil is done, And all its battles have been won. There lives a sweeter music there Os gentle and melodious measure, Where weeping never comes, and where The ages perish into pleasure. —Freeman E. Miller. Hillsboro, Inu. Quits. Indeed, they have not grieved me sore, Your faithlessness and your deceit; The truth is, 1 was troubled more How I should make a good retreat; Another way my heart now' tends; We can cry quits, and be good friends. I found you far more lovable. Because your fickleness I saw, For 1 myself am changeable; And like, you know, to like doth draw; Thus neither needs to make amends; We can cry quits, and be good friends. While I was monarch of your heart, My thoughts from you did never range* But from my vassal did I part, When you your former love did change; No penalty the chhnge attends; We can cry quits, and be good friends. Farewell! We’ll meet again some day, And a'd our fortunes we'll relate; Os love let’s have no more to say. ’Tis clear we're not each other's fate. • Our game in pleasant fashion ends; We can cry quits, and be good friends, —Chambers's Journal. Indian Summer. Then followed that beautiful season Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All Saints! .Filled was the air with tt dreamy and magical light; and the landscape lay as if new created in all tho freshness of childhood; Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and tuo restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, tho crowing of cocks in the barnyards, Whir of wings on the drowsy air and the cooing of pigeons, All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun liooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him. Longfellow's “Evangeline.” Joy. Take Joy home. And make a place in thy great heart for her, And give her time to grow, and cherish her; Then will she come and oft will sing to thee, When thou art working in the furrows; aye. Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawa. It is a comely fashion to be glad: Joy is the grace we say to God. There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned?There is a sacrifice. Gift up thy head; Thu lovely world aud the over-world alike Ring with a song eteruo, a happy rede: “Thy Father loves thee.” —Jean Ingclow. The Oldest Mason. JVuffnlo Express. ’ The oldest Mason in tho United States” will hold a national convention in Vermont during the coming winter. Tho meeting should have been called for somo date before election, as newspaper statistics show that tho oldest mason i* now numerous enough to hold the balance of jolitical power. llood’s Sarsaparilla, acting through tho blood, reaches every part of the system, and in this •ay positively cures catarrh.

A WAR STORY. Joaquin Miller. Grizzled and gray, dazed and indolent, looking as if he had missed the train in the progress of his life, as if the world had gone on and left him hopelessly behind—no Christmas turkey for him this year; not for twenty years past, I reckon — the old confederate soldier, who limped about awkwardly, for he had a lot of lead to carry, told me this story the other day in the Shenandoah. If it is untrue or dull, blame him, not me; I only give it as I got it General “Jeb” Stuart was hanging on the federal flank. His midnight camp was pitched on the hillside. Up the hill a little way lay a farm house; two or three haystacks hung upon tho hillside. The worn-out horses fed there and nodded their drowsy heads in the hay. All around on the ground under the trees in the camp the troopers lay—black men, white men, brown men, men who were gray and old; little lads, boys who had seen dozens of battles and hardly yet as many years, a mixed and motley lot; ragged, wretched, hungry. They lay on their bellies before the fire, munchingroasted corn, gnawingit off the cob greedily, husking it, roasting it, rolling it in tho ashes on the coals, singeing it in the blazing fire of old Virginia fence rails. Now and then a shot rang out in the clear, still night, away where tho pickets met too closely for peace, and now and then better disposed men on the picket lines, or more favored and fortunate, met together and reached each other on their bayonets tobacco and old ragged newspaper’s in a sort of exchange of prisouers of war. The moon rode high and white in the great blue sea above, and all tho stars of heaven looked down in pity and in peace. Then a song burst out, tho black men were singing louder, sweeter, with more pathos and memories of home than the white men. It was a sad, grotesque, weird andunique picture. Suddenly Stuart stood in tho midst of the ragged and uproarous lot. “Discipline! Look here. Sergeant Zeb, I want discipline or death. Discipline. I say. l)o you expect me to fight battles and win victories with a howling mob like this, and the enemy right here waiting to recall on us the moment we give them a chance! Discipline, I say. Hang your blacks and shoot your whites, or have discipline!” Sileuco in a second! And the long lean men and the sleeping lads pulled themselves together and tried to look and act like soldiers, while the blacks, at the suggestion of their being hung up, melted back from the fiftful embers into the night, as if they were part of it Then tho weary, bearded chief threw himself on a heap of saddles at hand and forgot his sternness as he looked about over the wretched group of poor fellows gathered for a little rest under the oaks. “Boys, I’m hungry as a wolf; what have you got to eat?” A dozen men sprang up, a half dozen young, beardless troopers, rushed forward, and from out of the night, back under trees, there came many black forms. And each and every one, black and white men, old men and little boys, reached up and thrust into the chieftain’s hands, with generous alacrity an ear of roasted corn. Some of these ears of corn had only a few teeth marks in them, being almost entirely intact. Others again were pretty well gnawed down to the cob. But they were all alike offered with prompt generosity. “Corn!” and tho confederate chief shook his head with a grim and sickly smile, as he muttered to himself: “Corn! boiled corn, roasted corn, raw corn, white corn, red corn, all kinds of corn. No, no. boys, I’m hungry; but I can’t eat corn any more to-night.” The men melted hack in respectful silence into a broad circle. And there, suddenly, somewhow, in the center of the circle, stood a child, a little boy, who had been aroused from his sleep on tho pile of saddles in tho commotion that attended the chieftain’s coming. And now, wide awake, with a little toy flag in one hand, and a red apple in the other, this little boy stood there in tho midst of these wild and ragged men, with cheeks as rosy as the apple he held in his dimpled little hand. “If j’er’hungry, mister Captain, General, here’s my red apple,” and with this the littlo boy toddled right up and stood almost between the booted legs of the surprised soldier. “Sergeant Zeb, where in all Jericno did this child come from? Is it yours? I won’t have children around me here. I left my babies at home; can’t you do the same?” “Tain’t my poor little chickie, General Stuart. ’’ “Then take it to its mother,” thundered tho chief. “Its mother is dead, General.” “To its father, then.” “Its father is dead, too, General.” “Dead?" “Dead.* Killed in the battle, yesterday, when you led over that stone fence by the farm house on the hili. sah.” The confederate General bit his lips. Then, muttering to himself, be roso up and turned half away: “Killed at tho farmhouse where I led. Some poor farmer defending his home and little ones. I eau’t stand this! ’ “Please, sir, Mister General won’t you take my red apple? Papa growed it in his orchard. And he buyed me that, too.” Here the child reached its little flag, trying hard to make friends with the seemingly hard man, who was turning away as if to avoid it. “Sergeant Zeb, where did that flag come from?” “Had it in its hand when I found it, sah; it won’t give it up, sah; says his father gave it to it for the fourth of July, sah.” “Foss of July’,” piped the little waif, waiving the little stars and stripes overhead, there in the midst of the dark and gathering circle of the soldiers under tho oaks. The General turned, stopped and caught the child in his arms. “Keep your pretty little flag, and wave it when and wlire you like. You don’t know the differ once. Here, Zeb, take care of this little kid. Boys, wo killed his father by chance, yesterday. Let us take care of it. We can’t do less; and mavbo it will bring us luck. What do you say, boys?” The wild shout that shook the leaves of the oaks overhead startled the advocate for discipline, and turning to Zeb, as he strode away into the night for another part of his camp, he shouted: “Silence! and, Zeb, discipline! Dash it. discipline or death, I say!” .and he was gone. They gathered about the wild-eved, rosy-faced orphan, with its flag and red apple, and many a black and white and not overly clean hand reached out to toy with and stroke the hair of gold that hung heavy as corn-silks in summer time over tho lad’s shoulders. “I found it in the fence-corner,” said Zeb, “all a shiverin’, and its daddy and its mamma dead, shot down by stray bullets when we stormed the place.” “Yes, and dar war a rabbit right aside up him,” said a black face in the dark, over another man’s shoulder. “An*, golly, we kotched and eat der rabbit,” chuckled another black man. “Wal, we’ll keep the kid; keep ’em till the cows come home.” And with a grunt of universal approval from all, as they gradually melted away, old Zeb hoisted the little one high up on his colossal shoulders, and turned suddenly to look and to listen, for there was a shot down the hill and a sudden sharp volley of shot above, beyond the hay stacks. It began to look as it his little squad of raiders had got into a bite. Shouts of the enemy down the hill beyond tho hay stacks. Which way should the surprised and panic stricken soldier fly? The colossal old Virginia sergeant, with tho child on his massive shoulders, was the only officer in charge. The blacks were hiding about behind the trees, behind each other, under saddles, blankets, anywhere. The shouts of tho advanc iug enemy came loud and clear from below, and very uear. The camp fire, the song of the soldiers, had done the mischief. This little squad of ragged, panic-stricken, native raiders was doomed. The leaves began to fail like autumn time over old Zeb, the tall and angular old sergeant. What a plight for a soldier! A battle on hand and a bab<‘ in his arms. The old sergeant came near throwing it away with the heap of negroes, hiding away under the saddles. Where was Stuart? The sergeaut put his hand to his ear and leaned to listen as best he could between the sharp volleys from below that wore ruining the prospects of the next year’s corn cron in the trees overhead. He could hear the clatter of iron hoofs on the high ridge to the west. Tire moon was setting large, and round, and low. Over the bare crest of this hill and against the

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1881.

moon he could see the confederate cavalry pouring in impetuous flight. Stuart, the cautious and wary leader, had eseapod. “Come, men! We must follow our general on foot—any way to get out of this. Come! Up by the haystacks and over the ridgo." Tho strong man started up the hay-stacks. The child, as if it was afraid it might fall, wound its left arm affectionately about the great gray shock of hair. And that little act saved it; that accidental show of affection won the old fellow’s heart entirely. Why, ho would not now have pitched it aside with the torrified negroes for gold. Up the hill he led swiftly, the men followed in groups, knots, singly, armed, unarmed, limpiug, leaning, erect, in all manner of ways, only to escape the ferocious federate, charging up the hill from below. They could see the points of shining bayonets entering their camp, by tho light of the burning fence rails, as they fled out of it. and the black color had nearly all faded from the flying confederates as they neared the hay stacks. Hero the gray-haired old sergeant, with the child on his shoulder, paused for a moment under the hay stacks to get his bearings. The moon had fallen down the crest of tho hill. It was nearly dark now. The federal bayonets were only a few steps in the rear. The ragged and demoralized confederates huddled close and helpless up and after the tall and grizzled old giant, who stood there looking out which way to lead them, with tho child on his shoulder, its little left arm hugging the great gray head, its right one holding the Hag. The tall, gray soldier threw up liis great heavy hand to his brow and looked out under his broad palm to try and see which way to lead. Suddenly tho hay stacks blazed out before him, and the whole scene was bright as day. The federate had been waiting for the confederates to come. And now, as they stood there, huddled together and helpless as sheep, they found the haystacks in their path of retreat, and stood there behind them, before them, around them, to shoot them down in the light they had kindled. # • It was a matchless and magnificent sight! No scene so bright, no sunlight brighter! Jt pleased the child, excited and delighted it. What could it car© for the long lino of gleaming guns leveled a few rods away in tho rear? What did it know of the death hiding down in every gleaming gun-barrel of that compact mass of uniformed men just before? Nothing at all. Its little heart leaped with wonder and delight at the beautiful uniforms, the discipline, the quick action in which every gun was brought instantly to the shoulder. The bayonets were beautiful, the gleaming bayonets all in the bright light The child seemed to think this a part of the celebration, and in fullness of its delight, just as tho federal officer drew his sword and was giving the word “fire!” the child, holding tight on to the great, grizzly head with its left hand, and as if to contribute its part to the eelebra tion, waved its little flag there in the glare and light. And in that awful stillness which comes always before any dreadful catastrophe, piped out in its shrill little voice, as it raised itself higher for the occasion: “Foof of July!” Put it upon record in gold and red that the. federal officer lowered the point of his sword. Tho heavy breeches of the guns struck tho stony ground with a thud. The line of blue divided, and the old gray confederate, w'ith his littlo charge on his shoulder still waving its little flag, passed on through the line, while cheer after cheer shook the bullet-riddled leaves of the oaks overhead. And this is the story of the old confederate soldier of the Shenandoah, who had missed the train on the line to progress, down in old Virginia.

WnilAM’S GREAT DISGRACE. Mournful Recollections of the Time When He Ran for the Legislature. Deuver Opinion. The following letter was stolen from Visscher’s desk this week: Hudson, Wis., Oct 10. —My Dear Visscli: IfI have any influence whatever with the authorities in the New Jerusalem you shall some day havo a nice new harp that has never been used. The best 7i crown and harp on the evergreen shore are none too good for you. Softly, however!!! You say you are going to run for the Legisla turo. That makes a difference. Why do you do that? It has been a long time since you stepped aside from the path of rectitude. At least, if you did so you were very discreet about it, and now, just as the business men of Denver begin to trust you, why do you strike out hellbent for the Legislature? I once ran for tho Legislature myself. (Please burn this letter.) Yes, I ran for the Legislature in Wyoming, and, though it didn't get noised around at all, and thouerh the awful secret was hidden in this heaving bosom, it has cursed my whole life. Sometimes I am almost tempted to go and give myself up to the authorities and let the law tako its course. 1 would if it were not for my children. I don’t want them to suffer from the taunts of other children whose fathers never ran for the Legislature. Sometimes I wake in the night with a horrible start, and imagine that I am again in the hands ts my friends, and that I am once more running behind the ticket like a pale-red steer in the corn. Again the canvassing board count the votes, and myself and Scattering are absent for two hours. It is terrible. My leg is growing together again all right, and very soon the doctor will turn me loose on the community again. It’s been a pretty long siege, and seemed a little tough at times, but I didn’t kick. I couldn’t very well. Many have asked me how the accident occurred. I cannot state definitely, but I thiuk I must have stepped on a peal of thunder. People cannot be too careful in peeling their thunder, not to leave the peals around where some one may step on them and get hurt. Yours sincerely, Bill Nye, Cyclonist. Same Old Stories. Crokcr Correspondent. The Duke of Glo’ster is a great asker of questions. He asked the Duke of Grafton, who, though sixty six, does not look above fifty, “how old he was," before a large company in a country house. The Duke of Graf lon did not like tho inquiry, but answered. Some time after the dukes met again, aud the Duke of Glo’ster repeated this question, to which tho Duke of Grafton dryly renlied, “Sir. 1 am exactly three weeks two days older than when your Royal Highness last asked me that disagreeable question.” Count Staremberg, when he was in England, used to play at the Union. HU English was not quite so good as his luck. Playing one night at trente et un, the late Lord Barrymore was at the table, and not much delighted with the success of the Count. His Excellency was not very nice in his person, and it was ludicrous to hear him proclaim the state of his hand by saving, “I am dirty! lam dirty!’’ At last when he had achieved the best possible hand, he was so elated that he almost embraced Barrymore, exclaiming, “I am dirty, I am dirty-one, lam dirty-one.” Barrymore, who lost by the Count's success, and had no liking for tho nasty embrace, said, “Damn it, sir, so you are; but * that’s no reason why I should be dirty, too.” Famous Wine. London Truth. Steinberger Cabinet figures in almost every “wine-list” in the country, but people aro vastly mistaken if they suppose that they really drink the grand wine of the Rheingau. * The produce of the Nassau vineyards (which rival those of Prince Metternich, at Johannisberg) is stored away in the cellars of the monastery of Erbach, and goes only to a very few royal purchasers, at a price which is fixed by sworn appraisers. The largest supply is sold to the steward of tlie emperor’s household at Berlin. The Cabinet wine of the famous year 1808 now fetches thirty-five shillings per bottle. During a whole month forty women were employed in carefully select ing every single grape for this wine. None of the finest Nassau wines ever get into the hands of the trade. What is usually known as JSteinber ger Cabinet is the produce of an inferior, but still a very fine, vineyard, which is blended with cheaper wine. What Would the World Do Without woman? asks the essayist who starts out to say something new on this oft treated sub jeet Os course, the Human element of the world would riot exist without woman, so the question is gratuitous. It would have been far more sensible to ask: What would tho world do without the salvation of woman, without a panacea for her physical ills, and a euro for her pecu liar diseases? In a word, what would the world do without Dr. Pierce’s “Favorite Prescription,” tho great remedy for female weaknesses? It is indispensable for the ills of womankind.

HUMOR OF THE DAY. Lovo in Quebec —“Whose ’ittlo embezzler is oo?” “I’se oo's ’ittle embezzler.”—Life. Another Thine. —Young Richling from the West: “Isn’t that young girl over there very much painted?” Miss B. f fresh from school: “Pas du-tout. ” Young It.: “What! Powdered too? You don’t say!”—Life. A foreign scientist is reported to have carried the art of instantaneous photography to tho point of securing photographs of a bullet in its flight. It is said to look very much like a baseball umpire leaving the field after a game.—Burlington Free Press. Art in Delaware. —Miss Rosebud: “Do you know, Mr. Palette. 1 never knew before to-day that you and I were from the same State?’’ Palette: “Same State, Miss Rosebud? Why. lam a Now Englander. I live in Massachusetts." Miss Rosobud: “Then, why do you always put Del. after your name in your pictures?” Food for Reflection—Mr. Societe: “I have just learned of your sister’s engagement, and congratulated her. I really wonder, though, how Tack Simmons ever got up his courage to speak to your father.” Miss Unplucked Flower: ‘•Why so, Mr. Societe?” Mr. S.: “Why, your father has always seemed to me so distant—a man difficult of approach.” Miss U. F. (with animation): “Oil, not at all, Mr. Societe. Getthat idea out of your mind. 1 beg of you, a3 soon as possible.”—Harper’s Bazar. How It Was Written. New York Graphic. “How do you like ray last story?” “Well enough.” “I wroto it out of my head.” “I am not at all surprised. I thought you must have been so when I read it" Put Him Dowu as Friendly. New York Sun. “How do you feel regarding the Christian re ligion?” asked an interviewer of a rich but very cautious man. “Well—er —” he hesitated, not knowing what might be behind the question. “You can—er — put me down as—as friendly, I think.” Why It Is Called a Brief. Washington Hatchet. “What is that, lovey-dovey?” asked newlymarried Mrs. Legalcap Demurrer of her husband, as he laid a heavy volume on the mantel. “That is my brief in the Jones case, sweetie,” ho responded with a kiss. “Why does lovey call it a brief?” “Because it contains 386 pages.” Christian Evidence. Detroit Post. “Don’t you know,” said a minister, addressing a little boy who was fishing, “that God doesn’t love littlo boys who fish Sundays?” Just then a pull on the lino occurred, and tho boy landed a two pound trout. “Don’t He?" exclaimed th<i boy,* placing the fish in a basket that contained about a dozen just like it. “Don’t Ho? You look in that basket, mister, an’ see if he don’t.” What Drives Men to Crime. Summerville Journal. “What aro you doing, Mary?" asked a Summerville husband, addressing his wife. “I am sewing on a crazy quilt.” she replied. “Aro there any buttons on it?” “No.” “I thought not,” he said; “it wouldnt. be like you to be sewing on anything that needed buttons," and drawing a deep sigh he proceeded to fasten his suspenders with a half-burned match. Why It Was. Atlanta Constitution. “Why?” asked Fitzgoober, with the air of a man who is about to spring some grand scientific truth on the world, “Why is my tailor like a postman with a love letter?” “Because he’s just come from a goose,’’ suggested Pullett. “No; all wrong.” A short silence fell upon them, broken by Plunkett timidly saying; “Why is it then?" “Because lie’s got a billet doux," answered Fitzgoober. casually stepping aside to avoid a rush of bricks that came suddenly into view.

Two Hand ’ and Eiglity-Elght. Pittsburg Dispatch. Dark was the stilly night, and the distant glare of electric lights and the occasional fitful flash of a November metior only served to deepen the shadows of the massive brick buildings which line Fourth avenue, when two Pittsburg attorneys ran into each other. “Oh, is it you, R. AT said one, and was immediately answered by a deep '‘Yes.” “Say,” continued the first speaker iu a mysterious voice, “did you hear that story about ‘2BB’ to-day?’’ “No,” answered the otHr excitedly, “what is it!” “Oh, it’s too gross, too gross entirely,” replied his companion in a mournful voice. “Tell away,” resumed the first, “and I'll try to stand it. If I must hear such dreadful things, I must.” “Well, exclaimed his friend, “144 is one gross and ‘2BB is two gross, isn’t it?” A m rt teor sbsc across the sky like a flash of lightning—a thud—a moan—a chuckle—a dark form stealing away in the darkness —and all was silent A Blessed Peacemaker. Boston Cor. Bt. Paul Pioneer Press. A knot of adult spectators had gathered about the urchins out of curiosity. In the crowd was a good looking, inoffensive appearing young fel low, well but not loudly dressed. He had stopped to see what tho trouble was about. A strapping big Irish coal-team driver had left his team, and had forced his way into the front row. “Go it, b’ys,”ho said. The “b’ys” needed no urging, and at each other they went like two little bantams. Savagely they struck at each other, then clinched, and after a brief but desperate struggle, went down in the mud. “Hit him, hit him!’’ yelled the burly coal team driver, as he danced excitedly around the fighting bootblacks. Tho boys broke away from each other, got up and went at it once more. Before they could do each other further harm, howevor, the young fellow before referred to swept his way through the crowd, seized the lads by their shirt collars and pulled them apart. “Stop this, my lads,” was all ho said, but he stood prepared to make them obey his commands. “Let 'em alone. What’s yous stopping the b'ys fur?” said tho big teamster, as lie bristled up to tho young fellow, who seemed barely half his size. “Let ’em fight it out, or I’ll break yer jaw,” ho continued, fiercely. It is hard to tell just what followed. The next I saw of the big teamster he lay prone on the ground, groaning as if badly hurt. Tho quiet young man had given him one straight from the shoulder in the jaw. He got up slowly, with a big swelling on his jaw, and went directly to his team. He was satisfied. Some youngster cried “Cheese it, der copper!” and the crowd melted away like “dew before the sun.” Who was the young fellow who had shown such nerve, science and strength? It was Jack Burke, the champion middle-weight pugilist of England, who “bested’’* Mitchell in New York recently. “I thought you enjoyed fighting, Jack,” I said. “I’m not such a coward as to stand by and see two young lads maul each other that way. I am ready to fight anybody' in the world, bar Sullivan; but I fight for a living only,” was all ho said. The Cost of Royalty. London Letter. The fact that the Prince of Wales’s eldest son is about to come round with the hat, has caused a good many people to look up the cost of the royal family, who are rather surprised, upon ex amination, to find that the sum total amounts to over $3,750,000. The Queen's nominal salary is $1,925,000 per annum, to which must bo added the revenues from the Duchy of Lancaster, about $225,000, and the cost of maintaining her palaces, $107,925, and of keeping her yachts in order, $203,875 —altogether $2,401,800. Her private means are also enormous—nobody knows what they do amount to; but it is estimated that her careful savings of forty years must represent about $20,000,000. The Crown Princess of Prussia takes $40,000 per annum to Germany: the Prince and Princess of Wales derive from all sources $581,015 yearly: the Duke of Edinburg, $131,980 (he and his wife are immensely rich from other sources): Princess Christian and Princess Louise have $30,000 apiece: the Duke of Connaught. $140,000; tlio Duchess of Albany, $30,000; the Princess of Mecklenburg, $15,000; the Princess Took, $25,-

000, and tho Duke of Cambridge, $05,800. All the nation has as a set off to all this is $1,500,000 paid in on account of the “Crown” lands. It would have been much better to havo left tlie lauds as they were. INCOHERENT ART. Au Exhibition Which Burlesques Modern Art Tendencies. Paris Letter in Boston Journal. It would bo difficult to imagine anything more wildly comical than the “Exhibition of the Incoherent Artists,” which this year exceeds in boldness and comicality all its predecessors. The object of the promoters of this exhibition is primarily profit, of cours; but they also intend cleverly to satirize the art tendencies of the time. The “artists'* who contribute do not content themselves with colors; they employ real wood, real cloth, real liair with which to depict tho subject chosen by them. The effect is sometimes quito side splitting, and, as we are in Gaul, we are not expected to be surprised if the bounds of decency are occasionally overstepped. A contribution which would startle even Whistler is the “Tomato Harvest on tho Borders of tho R.ed Sea; Apoplectic Cardinals Engaged in Harvesting the Fruit” Hero red prevails, ns may be imagined; and the artist has made his background of a square of blood-red cloth. Ono of the Incohercnts has depicted Saint Denis shaving his own freshly decapitated head. The “Fifth Act of Camille” shows us a miniature bedstead, on the pillow of which lies a terra cotta head—a most fantastic caricature of Sara Bernhardt’s lively and nervous countenance. The bed room furniture is complete, so complete that it makes the English visitors say “Shocking!” Now and then there is a touch of pathos in the work of these “Incohercnts,” as in a small and well-executed sketch, which shows two men—who aro taking a coffin down a narrow stairway, suddenly coming against two other men who are bringing up a piano. This in striking, but not true to life. The oddest tiling about apartment houses in Paris is that one never meets his neighbors on the stairs, never happens to encounter their funerals, or to hear their quarrels, or to know of their illnesses. One reason why the Parisians object to the general introduction of elevators in apartment houses is found in their fear that they might be subjected to occasional meetings, which they now avoid. I was one evening going to a dinner party, and, as it was raining as I left the house in which I reside, I asked tho concierge to call me a cab. When the cab came the concierge heard me give tho driver the number of the street to which I was going. “Tiens!” he said, “M. So-and So,” mentioning the namo of a well-known Paris man of letters, “asked me to call a cab just as you have, and gave exactly the same address. What a coincidence?” “M. So and-So?” I queried, “does he live in our house'?” “Ay, and has—for these six years—lived here.” I had often met this gentleman at social gatherings and conversed with him. but never until that evening had I discovered that our homes were beneath the same roof. To return to the “Incoherent?.” A daring contributor has sent what he calls the “Do Lesseps family,” a caricature on the pretty portraits of that interesting nichee d’enfants which was shown at this year's Salon. The “Incoherent" artist has placed the nine children with their backs to tho light, and has given thorn all real hair. The effect is highly amusing. There are a good many vulgar subjects, and these have been so mercilessly criticised by the press that the offenders will probably be more circumspect at the next exhibition,

Appetite of a Baptist Clergyman. New York Tribune. At an up-town hotel the other day a guest surprised even the oldest regular boarder by his feats of gastronomy. A Tribune re porter saw him order, in succession, four plates of chicken and five plates of roast beef, which with due accompaniments of vegetables, were quickly disposed of. As the reporter left the room the steward said: “You should have remained another hour to got the full benefit of the performance. He will eat till 5 o’clock. It is the common thing for him to ‘get away’ with thirty to thirty-live plates of meat.” “Who is the man?” asked the reporter. “A Baptist clergyman from the interior of tho State, who is here for medical treatment.” Later in tho evening the steward said to the reporter: “The minister ate until everyone else had left tho room. The girls cleared up tho floor about him betore he was ready to quit. He ate his usual quantity of heavy food, and then took two dishes of fruit and emptied both. They were filled high with grapes, bananas, apples and pears. Then he drank two cups of coffee aud retired till next time. ” “What will that be?” “At 10 o’clock to-night ho will begin a supper that will last till 12. He eats quantities of lobster, oysters, etc., and washes it down with milk. Think of it, lobster and milk—it would kill a horse!” “How often doos your guest come to Now York?” “Three or four times a year. That’s all even a hotel can stand.” Strange Wagers. New York Graphic. The London swells are the most inveterate betters in the world. Time hangs so heavy on their hands that in the excitement of uncertainty they find a grateful relief. A curious bet was made in one of the London chibs, somo years ago, that will perhaps point a moral. It was that a certain member could not, within two hours, on London Bridge, sell 106 new guineas at a penny apiece. The man took his place on the bridge with a little tray, on which he had tho coins. He informed tlie passers by that they were genuine gold coins from the Bank of England, and that they were to be had for a penny each. The cartmen and policemen laughed at him. When the timo had expired, such is human incredulity that he had sold but two, which a maid servant bought to amuse her little charges. Another peculiar bet made in London was by a well-known barrister for a large amount, that he could, at a certain hour, block Fleet street in the busiest part of the day find at its narrowest point. Half an hour before the time appointed ho took his stand on the opposite side of the street from an insurance office which had a largo lion over the door. He was dressed like a necromancer, with a long cloak and wearing a tall, pointed hat and largo glasses over his eyes. Under one arm he carried an enormous book : and in the other held a largo telescope which he every few minutes pointed at the lion after inspecting the book. People gathered around, and ho told them that in tho Book of Balderdash it was written that in half an hour that lion would wag its tail. Slowly walking up and down, and every few minutes taking a look at the lion through his glass, ho attracted tho attention of everybody, and tho awaiting crowd grew every moment denser. Then wagons stopped to see what the trouble all was, and these jammed others until the whole street was crowded and impassable. The barrister slipped away in tlie crowd, but a most obstinate jam ensued, and it was more than an hour before tho police could clear the thoroughfare. .John F. llale as a Political Speaker. Bon: l’orloy Pooro. John P. Hale, when on his way to Washington, in the fall of 1858, was prevailed upon to attend a meeting of tho “Free Democrats” in New York, where ho was loudly called on for a speech. At last he came forward aud said: “1 recollect to have heard several years ago of a clergyman of one of the Now England villages who asked leave of absence from his parish for six weeks, to go and marry a lady to whom ho had been for some time attached. Leave was readily granted, the clergyman went, and at the end of six weeks came back witli a wife, but not the wifo that lie went to marry. Such an event caused no little excitement and no little indignation in the parish; and the clergyman, to ex plain his position and to appease the indignation that was excited, came before his people on tho following Sabbath and preached to them an ex planatory sermon from this text: ‘lt is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.’ And, my friends, when I find myself, the second time since 1 have been in the State of New York, con trary to the firm and settled conviction of my own understanding, addressing a political assembly, aud I ask myself why it is, iu contra diction of my own settled determination, that 1 am here addressing a political assembly, I find no answer for it, except that ‘lt is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.’” Thk most reliable article in uso for restoring gray hair to its original color and promoting its growth is Hail's Vegetable Sicilian Hair Uo newer.

THE GAG IJS STALK. Tlie Most Terrible and Fatal Intoxicant Yet Discovered. San Francisco Call. “I)o you know what that te?” said the captain of a bark lately returned from a cruise in the Southern seas, to a Call reporter, who was prowling around tho water front in search of items. Ho held in his hand what appeared to be a gaudily-painted barber's pole shrunken to the size of a policeman’s club. The reporter surveyed tho object curiously, and admitted that ho could not guess what it was. “That,” continued the skipper, taking tho nondescript object from the reporter's hands and earessitig it as though it was a kitten, “is a piece of gagus stalk. It came from Gauptil island, near the Molucca group. I have navigated tho South seas for many years, and I never saw it growing upon any other island, and I don’t think you will find any seafuring man who hails from those waters but will bear out what, I say." “But what is it?’’ questioned the reporter, oyoing tho curiosity. “Gagus root!” “Yes, that’s as near as wo sailors can got to what the natives there call it. I’ve heard thes# four-eyed scientific, lubbers call it by a namo ft srard5 r ard long, but I might as well have tried to reef a mainsail alone as to'reel it around my mental windlass. Gagus is good enough for me.” “Who painted it?" wouton tlie reporter, a suspicion creeping into his inind that the captain had ornamented it with color for the purpose of selling it to some Democrat to put in his hat. “Painted it? Why. jigger me, that's the way it grew,” cried the skipper, with a laugh. “I guess you haven’t seen anything like it before.” The reporter admitted that ho had not, and asked the captain to dissipato at one© the cloud of mystery surrounding tho “gagus.” “It is a species of cactus,” ho explained, “and, as I said, grows only, to my knowledge, on Gauptil island. Tho island is a small one, but is well populated by natives of the Malay race. In tho interior this plant grows wild, flourishing especially in the red rocky soil. It looks beautiful when growing, as you inierht judge by the bright hues with which this is spotted. The main stalk is covered with sharp, net tle-like protubernaces, aud a prick from one of them will cause more pain than a handful of red pepper thrown iu your eyes. When young the plant consists of but one stalk, which shoots up straight to a height of four or five feet. It is a brilliant scarlet in hue. Toward winter a number of offshoots spring out, until the tiling looks like a broom stood upright. Green and purple specks then appear all over it. A grove of gagus shrubs is a very pretty sight. But it is the properties of tho plant which distinguish it. Opium is a potent drug, but I will back tho extract from the gagus stalk to effect moro damage on tho human system than all the opium in tlie world. The natives cut the plant in the early spring. After they have gathered a sufficient quantity the put it in large bowls and crush it with huge stones. A grayish sap runs out freely and this they collect and drink aftor letting it ferment, which it does easily. One drink of a pint is enough for an ordinarj* man, but I have seen natives driuk moro. Within half an hour after imbibing it the drinker becomes perfectly stupid and lies around like a log. The spell lasts a day or more, during which time the natives say they live in paradise.” “Do white men drink it?” “I have known sailors to try it, but they never tackled it twice. There years ago I had a man in my crew who was driven crazy by one drink.” “What effect does it have upon the natives?” “Well, that is where the gagus displays itself. If you could see some of the teirible examples of gagus drinking iu Gauptil you would be horrified. The first effect of the liquor is to soften tho bones and gradually eat them away. There are natives thero, the victims of gagus, who aro indeed boneless and unable to walk or use their limbs. They then begin to wither away like this stalk until they die in misery and convulsions. Immediately after death the head of tho corpse becomes soft as pulp, no bones can be felt; the skull is complete ly eaten away. The body then begins to swell as though it were inflated with gas and immediate burial is necessary. “How long does it tako to thus dovastato a human being?” asked the reporter. “That is according to the appetite of tho victim to the stuff. Usually two years will finish the hardest man. Oh, the sufferings of the slaves to the drink are terrible. Tho piece of plant was again subjected to an inspection by the reporter, and this time with some manifest interest. “You see. it is hard,” said the captain, dropping it on the deck to prove his words; “and this is harmless unless, I presume, it was soaked in water and the liquor drunk.”

VIRGINIA MUD. Wliat the Soldier Boys Waded Through In Their Campaigns. “Recollections of a Private,” in December Century. “No country can beat a Virginia road for raud. We struck it thick. It was knee deep. It was verily 'heavy' marching.’ The foot sank very insidiously into the mud, and reluctantly eamo out again; it had to be coaxed, and while you were persuading your reluctant left, the willing right was sinking into unknown depths; it came out of the mud like the noise of a suction-pump when the water is exhausted. “The order was given, ‘Route step;’ wo climbed the banks of the road iu search of firm earth, but it couldn’t bo found, so wo went on pumping away, making about one foot in depth to two in advance. Our feet seemingly weighed twenty pounds each. We carried a number six into the unknown depths of mud, but it camo out a number twelve, elongated, yellow, and nasty; it had lost its fair proportions, and would be mistaken for anything but a foot, if not attached to a leg. It seemed impossible that we should ever be able to find our feet in their primitive condition again. Occasionally a boot or shoo would be left in the mud, and it would take au exploring expedition to find it. Oh, that disgusting, sticking mud ! Wad Rider declared that if Virginia was once in tho Union, she was now in the mud. A big Irish comrade, Jim O’Brien, facetiously took up the declension of mud, — mudder, murder, —pulling a foot out at each variation for emphasis. Jack E. declared it would be impossible to dislodge an enemy stuck in the mud as wo were. “The army resembled, more than anything else, a congregation of flies making a pilgrimage through molasses. Tho boys called their feet ‘pontoons,’ ‘mud-hooks,’ soil-excavators,’ and other names not quite so polite. When we halted to rest by the wayside, our feet were in the way of ourselves and everybody else. ‘Keep your mud hooks out of my wav,’ 'Save y r our pontoons for another bridge,’ were heard on ail sides, mingled with all tho reckless, profane and quaint jokes common to tho army, and which are not for print “The mud was in constant league with tho enemy;'an efficient ally in defensive warfare; equivalent to re-enforcements of 20,000 infantry. To realize the situation, spread tar a foot deep all over your back yard, and then try to walk through it; particularly is this experiment recommended to those citizens who wero constantly crying, 'Why doesn’t tho army move? 1 It took the military valor all out of a man. Any one would think, from reading the Northern newspapers, that we soldiers had macadamized roads to charge over at the enemy. It would have pleased us much to have seen those ‘On to Richmond' fellows put over a five-mile course in the Virginia mud, loaded with a forty-pound knapsack, sixty rounds of cartridges, and haver- ' sacks filled with four days’ rations.’’ Roniuuce of an Knr of Corn. Peoria Journal. It has always been thought that ears of corn have an even number of rows, and that one with an odd number of rows would ho an impossibility. In slavery times this question was discussed, aud a negro in Kentucky claimed that he had sown oars of that kind, llis master told him ho would giro him his—the negro’s—freedom for an ear of corn with an odd number of rows. This was in early spring, but in the fall, during corn gathering time, tho negro camo with a sound ear of corn with thirteen rows. He got his free papers. A long time afterward the old negro said that in roasting-ear time he took a sharp knife, cut out the one row of grains, bound the ear together, and knew just where to find it when gathering time camo. Including imported and native born, it is claimed that there are now in this country about 25,000 registered Jerseys. A certain philanthropist in tho State of Ohb buys a large quantity of Dr. Bull’s Cough Syrup every winter, and donates tho same to the poor suffering from coughs.

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