Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 21 December 1884 — Page 6
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Northward. Ont on the sea—to the cold north skies, Into the region of ice and scow, Where sets the sunlight but to rise; For the glory of state they go, Out on the sea. Tito tide ran high thro 1 morn and night, With their hearts’ unconquered sway; And expectation's lamp was bright, For the track of victory lay, Out on the sea. Five and twenty souls stood fast To win—if lmman will could win. What to them is the icy blast, With the depth of burning fires within, Out on the sea/ We’ll never know how the blank was filled, We'll never know the record's worth. Knougli for us that the world is thrilled. W e won by over a league of earth, Out on the sea: And of their trials none but Him. Can ser, or know, or understand. Beside their woes, all else i** dim, But they gained for us four miles of land Out on the sea. Honor to them. Jocked in death's sleep! Great no less, because, instead, They have seen and known upon the deop, A larger span of life, tho’ dead, Out on the sea. The living, by miracle returned, The past is your’s; sealed thro’ Dark suffering’s cause, well earned, Uncovered, we salute you, Out from the sea. Ijet no dark whispers touch the name Os heroes from grim death’s clutch spared, If cruelty would dim their fame, Be it not ours tho lips that dared— They braved the sea. Then greet them with a welcome wide. Thank God that even six were found Kre ’twas too late, tho’ nineteen died To plant the flag four miles beyond, Out on the sea. —•lda May Davis. Under the Holly Hough. May joy, and pgace, and love abound, Under the Holly Bough; May happy song mi jest go round, Under the Holly Bough; Each heart has known its troubled hours, But Faith and Hope—O. blessed powers!— Can lift tho darkest cloud that lowers And deck the drearest lot with flowers, Under the Holly Bough. So smiles for all who gather yet Under tho Holly Bough; With thoughts of love and fond regret— Under the Holly Bough— For those who linger out of sight; Their faces, too, with smiles are bright, As, bending from von heavenly heightj They bid us meet, with hearts still light, Under the Holly Bough. E. 0, Outside. *‘l wonder what it all may mean?” The tiny feet were bare, The Christinas winds blew sharp and keen Across the chill church-stair; One little lamb, outside the fold, Looked through the open door.^ At hot-house buds and sheen of gold, And richly marbled floor. *'l wonder what they do inside?” The music floated round, Some anthem, seeking far and wide, With itishsd kiid yearning sound? Then raptured, like a conquering soul That nears the tender sky, It found a psalm, and brought the whole Before the Christ on high. "I wonder if its wrong to peep?” I wish I might go in; The snows are falling soft, and deep, My frock has worn so thin! Oh, mother dear! is this the home Where, you have gone to stay? Oh, toll me! won’t they let me come, And kiss you once a day ? I heard the children in the street Talk of the Christmas-tide; They spoke aloud of toy and treat— Oh, call your child inside! My mother, at this Christmas hour With you T long to be! In this fair house, with wreath and flower, Will they make room for me ?” The organ peeled, the people sang— Note Heard her pleading there; Across the fields the music rang, And blest the bitter air; And quietly, as winds grew'wild, The weo limbs touched the sod, — Ob. little lamb ! oh, weary child ! Como to the arms of God! Margaret Uaycraft, in January Quiver.
Love’s Summer. The summer is ended, My darling, my own: The blossoms have faded. The song hards have flown. But what does it matter To us, pretty one, When love’s golden summer Has only begun.* Love’s summer, sweet comer, That gildeth life’s gloom, Her roses forever And ever shall bloom. The red leaves arc falling, My darling, my fair; While keen winds aic blowing, And chill is the air; Yet bright is our sunshine, From skies that are blue; For love knows no winter, If love bci. but true. Love’s summer, sweet comer, That gildeth life’s gloom, Her roses forever And ever shall bloom. The waves of old ocean M ake moan to the land; The wild, angry billows Dash high on the strand; But what does it matter To you or to me, Who sail. O! my darling, On love’s summer sea! Ik>vc’s summer, sweet comer, That gildeth life's gloom, Her roses forever And ever shall bloom. She Caught Him. Because your eyes are blue, your lips are red, And the soft hair is golden on your head. And your sweet smiling can moke glad the day; And on your cheeks pink roses have their way, Sould I adore you? Binoc other maids have shining golden hair. And other cheeks the June pink roses wear, And other eyes can set the day alight, And other lips can smile with youth's delight, Why bow before you/ Bnt if tbc eyes are blue for me alone, And if for only me the rose has blown, And but for me the lips their sweet smile wear, Then shall you mesh ine in your golden hair. 1 w ill adore you. And as rav saint, my soul’s one shining star, That lights m> darkness from its throne afar, As lights the summer moon and waiting sea, With all Ia n and all I strive to be, I’ll bow before you. Secret Love. Stolen waters are the sweetest, Secret love is aye com pie test. One, the Arab legends say, One was taught me yesterday. Ijove is best that thrives unbidden, Love is blest, if harshly chidden. Bo the rarest flower grows In perpetual edge of snows. Reeret love abides the longer. Persecuted, love is stronger. * Gives the world too swift assent, Then is love but half-content. In Miss Kate L.’h Birthday Book. We parted, and mine eyes were wet; '1 lime, too. i think, were brimming. With tears or briuc/ Love, I forget. Could it be both? 1 think not. Yet, You know we were in swimming. —Century '•Bric-a-Brac.**
UNDER THE MISTLETOE. . Harriet Prescott Spoiiord. in Harper’s Weekly. The fire roared up the great chimney of the lonely old country house as if each struggling flame tumbled over tho other in a hurry to reach tho stars and the wind that roared in unison, while it cast a thousand rosy lights about the antique room, whose dark and polished wainscoat cast them forth again, to play about the massive silver of the buffet, the old potraits on tho wall and the cluster of young faces around the hearth. Miss Sangrefield, to be sure, was not so young; she was the embodiment rather of the hoarv a£e of her name and race. But there was Adrian, the impersonation of youth itself, the young, artist whoso pictures were just beginning to sell, who had come, as often before, for the holidays, to the region where he had found his first patron in old Miss Sangrefield, and his first and last and only love in her niece, the haughty Katharine, the sole representative now of the Sangrefields and the heiress of all the wealth they had left behind them. Not that Adrian had ever dared whisper a word of his love; it was locked into the last fastness of his heart, and he was a jealous jailer of the least sparkle of the eye that might betray it. But as if Katharine did not know it, for all that. Some day, he reasoned, if he became famous, if his pictures sold at the fabulous prices of his dreams —and yet, even then, he did not know if he should dare; she would still be the remote, unapproachable beauty; and certain visions that he had had of life in a studio, with small income, but with a wife beside him happy in small ways, always stood in the path of any bold determination to marry a woman whoso ancestral diamonds alone were a fortune. One night, he remembered, he had been dangerously near the point of testing his passion, his patience, his pride; dangerously near her, dressed for some ciueenly part in the play, the front of her dress thick with jewels that the women of her name had worn before her, a fillet of diamonds binding her night-black hair; someone, jostling her, had set all the jewols in a glitter, and down had fallen the coil of that fragrant night-black hair all about her to her feet—such hair as the Cartliagenian; women gave for bow-strings; and the jewels shook and glistened, and her great luminous eyes glistened like pale blue gems themselves, and the white hand she raised to that hair, the hand he had been about to seize —that he did seize—was so heavy with the jewels, pledges of old love, maybe, between lovers long dead and dost, that he dropped it like a weight. Was it the jewels, was it tho sense of that barrier of wealth, was it her own inaceessi ble individuality, that hindered? He could not say. He only felt the desire of the moth for the star, and used to reproach himself that he had not the courage of the moth to fly into the consuming light; for he kept away from the Sangrefields, and only when absenting himself from t holiday festa would have made his absence more conspicuous than 1-** J presence did he obtrude himself upon the view. But now, as he looked at her, how he loved her?
Yet, if in thinking of Adrian as young and ardent enough to absorb all the youth in the room, you would be sure he had done so had you looked a second time at Miss Sangrefield, from whom all youth seemed to be abstracted, as she sat there, an image of ago, with her white face, her white hair, her white laces, her white shawl, the only live or pulsing thing about her being the lights that glanced in her crimson satin draperies, and in two eyes that glimmered from their sunken pits. But there were others about the hearth with as eager an outlook on life as Adrian’s; not to speak of Rose and Mary, and Betty and Vennard, and the rest, since they were always with us, there was the Prince Pilatv, young himself, if his pedigree dated from the founding of Rome, an attache of legation, without sufficient visible means of support to keep him in walking-sticks, a princeling who had enough left of his family influence to attach him temporarily to a legation, and who, if he did not marry a fortune in this country, had no recourse but to become a dancing-master or a restaurant waiter. Meanwhile, being young and fond of the things of youth, he saw no reason why he should not love Katharine and her fortune too. And as Adrian looked at him he withdrew himself still further into the moody silence that was wont of late to wrap him, for there was to his picturesque view a certain fitness of things that made Katharine Sangrefield the proper bride for a family that dated from the foundation of Rome. Now and then Miss Sangrefield looked at Adrian; now and then she looked at Katharine; now and then she twisted the loose rings on her withered fingers, or put those fingers before her eyes and looked through them at the princeling. She was very old; life lay behind her. They were very young; life lay before them. She was presently to leave Katharine. In whose hands'? The warmth of her heart, the life of her soul, friend, husband, child, the wnole world in one! And the thin and trembling fingers still shielded the keen, old eyes that danced from the fire to the faces as restlessly as the flames themselves danced. “How the wind blows!” said Rose, drawing up her lace mantle as if it warmed her to do so, and giving Vennard the hint to draw it up again, and linger in the drawing. “Just hear it! It sounds like the keening at a mountain wake in Ireland. Did you ever hear anything so melancholy?” “It sounds half human,” said Betty, crouching closer to Miss Sangrefield’s feet. “These huge chimneys —” began Vennard. “It isn't the wind,” said Miss Sangrefield, letting her hands fall in her lap as if life had left them. “Isn’t the wind!” cried Rose and Betty in a breath. What is it, then?” “It is the voice of Sarah Sangrefield.” “Os Sarah Sangrefield?” cried Katharine. “There she hangs; look at her!” cried the old woman. “Look at her in all her fatal beauty!” “'Die one that resembles you so, Katharine,” said Vennard. And they all bent forward to see the likeness, as the startled girl from her low seat half turned to scan the portrait “Yes,” exclaimed old Miss Sangrefield; “once in every tenth generation the likeness reappears, they say. And this is Katharine to the life.” “Oh, it makes me shiver,” cried Mary. “It has made many a one shiver before.” said Miss Sangrefield. “For nearly twice a hundred years it has been making people shiver.” “A ghost! a ghost!’cried one and all. “Oh! it is just the night for it Do let us have the story.” And they turned to look over their shoulders, as Katharine had done, at the picture of the lovely lady in her old court robes stiff with silver thread and pearls, with the great pale blue jewel like eyes, the night-black hair, pearlbraided, the skin like the creamy petal of that rose which blushes only at the heart; and they shuddered, and gave little screams, and gathered closer together as the flickers of the fire-light fell on her, and made her seem to breathe and smile and move. “Oh,” cried Betty, “it is eerie enough now without any resurrection of dead and buried women. I want no ghost stories.” “Yes,” said tho old woman, not heeding, “that is Sarah Sangrefield. And many of the name have seen her walking in the great upper hall, and wringing her hands. I have never seen her myself, but 1 have known those that have. And I have heard her often. You hear her now, all of you.” And the sound, that was neither a sigh nor a wail, came shrilling about them, and aroused an answering chorus of shivers that was only part in mockery. “All may hear her weeping and wailing,” said Miss Sangrefield, “but the one who sees her only in warning.” “In warning?” “In warning. It is only young girls that have seen her, they say. and they only when danger threatened them* of loss of love or lover. And there are more ways than one to lose love and lover. Loss comes through pride, suspicion, jealous wrath, doubt nursed and nourished, as often as through rival beauty and charm.” “But tell us of Sarah Sangrefield,” urged Rose. “What use? 1 never dwelt much ou these old traditions. They are best forgotten. But. somehow', the ghost walks to night Let her walk.” “Let her walk,” said Katharine. “It is what ghosts are for.” Her aunt looked at her a moment “This ghost is for something else,” she said. “She was the bride of her cousin Alan Sangrefield. She had loved him from infancy. He was a part of her life. She could as soon divorce herself in
THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1884.
thought from him as pass life in thought without the hollow heavens above, without sunshine, without stars, without the familiar field, and earth, and river. All at once she found her husband false to her—she thought she found him false to her, X mean. And the earth moved under her feet. The shock of the discovery, and the apparent certainty were more than she was able to withstand. She had lost her own poise. There was nothing for her to take hold of while tilings whirled by. She could not realize that this was herself. And her husband, who had seemed to her a spirit of light and purity, had become, to her apprehension, a base and groveling being. He had been the soul of truth and honor; he had become the body of deceit and shame. It confounded and confused the universe; if he was wrong, nothing then was right She would look at mm for long moments together, without a word—look him through and through, as if to make out the guilty spot in him, or seek someone remnant of the old nobility to lay hands on. lie endurod the gaze, the tong, sad, broken-hearted gaze, in his innocence hoping all would right itself; to this wretched woman the world was in disorder, and her brain was in disorder with it. Then her husband at last took active means to undeceive her, to bring the fact before her. But everything he did, her burning suspicions were able to torture into supEort of lier idee fixee, that idea with which her rain was pierced as with one of the nails of the cross. No matter how tender he was with her, she shuddered, believing him to be assuming the tenderness; no matter how patient he was, she watched, lynx-eyed, believing him to he only biding his time. I suppose she really went mad; and going mad, she was conscious in the going that either he was false or she was mad, and offered no resistance, willing, thrice willing, to be mad instead. She felt herself entangled in a net work, blind and lame. She slipped from his arms in the night, and walked the long upper hall, wringing her hands and wailing aloud. And bv-and-by he wearied of it. liet him do what he would, he could not convince her that he loved her. Once he had loved her, indeed, now he loved another, was the invariable sense that opposed him. She was the heiress of immense wealth; she said to herself that he would keep the peace between them for the sake of that wealth. She knew he had great pride of name; she said to herself that he pretended to love her still, lest the world should get hint of shame, or lest breath of scandal should smear the repute of that other woman, the • - e he loved in that sweet secrecy. “It was impossible for him to make her believe he loved her, or loved her for horself. And so, by-and-by, as I say, he wearied of it; he no loneer felt patient under her doubt, her scrutiny; he became angry, proud, defiant. Ho ceased to care whether she thought him pure or base, true or false. He, too, passed through his phase of agony, and he simply ceased to love her. And the last state of that woman was worse than the first. Then she realized that she herself, by her doubts and suspicions, had been the destroyer of her own peace; that the spark which might have been trodden out in tho beginning had been fanned by jealous fears till it had consumed all the joy of her life. •But Alan Sangrefield had himself no more of joy in life. Life was absolutely empty for him, and his wife sawing him dying before her eyes, powerless to prevent it Like a flash, perhaps, she saw in it all only the revelation of her own gniltv doubt And one day she disappeared. From that day to this no one knows what became of her, nor of the old Sangrefield jewels that disappeared with her.” Miss Sangrefield paused a moment, and watched Katharine measuring Adrian with her furtive glance, before she went on again: “After awhile Alan Sangrefield plucked up courage, took heart, took anew lease of life, too, and married. He married, as it chanced, in all innocenco, the very woman on account of whom his wife had broken her heart It was the night of the wedding that Sarah Sangrefield began to walk that upper hall. The bride in her bridal chamber heard that wailing. She cowered a moment Perhaps she was guilty, if Alan was not And then she turned to her husband. His face was white and agonized. "It is her voice,’ ho cried. And with the cry the iron entered that woman's soul.
“After all, he loved the first wife best, the new one said. It was idle for him again to assure her that all love for that mad woman had died before she had died herself; the new wife had only to remember that look, that cry; she did not believe him: he loved the first wife still; he wanted her back; he longed and wearied and wept for her: lio had married the second time not knowing what he wanted. Sarah Sangrefield’s doubt had proved infectious. ‘lt is catching,’ cried the old woman suddenly. ‘The new wife never recovered from that night’s blow. Doubt and suspicion had hold of her. Righteous judgment, it maybe, but deadly hold. And when she died she cried out that Sarah Sangrefield, in her long white shroud, butblazingjunder the veil of her midnight hair in all the old Sangrefield jewels like a thing of fire, her eyes like gleams of sapphire fire themselves, just as she saw her in the doorway of the bridal chamber, was waiting to take her by the hand and lead her she knew not whither. ‘But into no worse misery thau this.’ And, as I say, many since that day have seen Sarah Sangrefield in her shroud and her jewels, the wind of her swift motion blowing out her cloud of hair as she weut by wringing her hands; but it is only to those whose lives are likely to be ruined by doubt or by suspicion does she come. All may hear her sorrow, but few may see the beautiful horror of her face. ” And then they all hold their breath and listened to the sound that was neither wail, nor windy whistle, nor music, but all three; and Adrian saw Katharine draw back into the shadow, with a look upon her countenance, when the flame flared up and fell full upon her, as if Sarah Sangrefield in her shroud and her jewels, wringing her hands and wailing as she walked, were not far away. They ail startled as if they* had been struck when the great bell of tho hall tolled eleven, and then they rose and made ready to part “Katharine,” said Adrian, as he paused a moment in bidding her good-by, and bent his head over her hand, “if the hand were with jewels for a man to lift!” And what question there was in the eyes he raised! “That does not hinder the Prince Pilaty,” murmured old Miss Sangrefield at his elbow. “Confound the Prince Pilaty!” said Adrian; still under his breath; and then the door had slammed behind him. That night, having dismissed the maid, Katharine sat in bier own room before tho dressingglass, not purposely, but happening to delay there thinking. “I am twenty-four years old,” was the way in which her involuntary thoughts were running, “and I am the mistress of a princely fortune, and I have two princely lovers —one a prince among men, and one a man among princes.” And then, she knew not by what momentary inspiration of folly, she had twisted a riviere of diamonds into something like the shape of a coronet, and was holding it over her brow as she scanned herself in the glass. “As for the Prince,” her thoughts ran on, “I have not a doubt It is plain certainty. He needs my fortune. With it he would bring back the ancient days of his family splendor. He would bo no more a penniless adventurer attached to an exiled legation, in fear of worse, but he would be what the old princes of his name were used to be. Nowadays some of' the Pilaty’s mend tea-kettles; and I —the question is—” and her inarticulate thoughts, that were more sensations than thoughts, put the question plainly, boldly, coarsely—“should I have the worth of my money in that tiara, that title, that greatness? I should have love, too, very likely. He is a weakling; but that I do not bargain for—l should not want. It would encumber me, he irksome to me, loathsome to me. But Adrian—” and her thoughts hesitated to shape themselves even in their hidden recesses— “if I were sure! He, too, is penniless; he, too, may see through golden gates the way to greatness. I may be, with him, merely the shadow, my wealth the substance. Oh, I have shuddered at the fear a thousand times. To doubt him now is sorrow; but were I once his wi r e, to doubt him then would bo sorrow worse than death. If I could only know, if—” And suddenly she stopped, transfixed. Does a reflection cast a shadow? Was it her own face twice repeated in the glass? Or was the white robed woman with the night black hair, the lustrous eyes like pale blue jewels, the blanched and woeful face, standing there behind her chair with parted, trembling lips, as if she vainly strove to speak—was that the form, the face, the ghost of Sarah Sangrefield? It was gray morning wheu Katherine woke and found herself fallen back in her chair, still before the glass, where she had either fainted or fallen asleep, she could not have told you which. Who would have thought tho stately Katherine would have rushed from the room and into her
aunt's bed without daring to think or conjecture? But she did; and there she lay till noon in a sound sleep without a dream. The girls had all been out in the woods, with their followers, for such bright berries ns tho birds had left, and they had been trimming the hall with hemlock boughs and laurel, when she came down the stairs. She had been getting her forces togothor, and had not dared encounter earlier the dissipation of the gay throng who had not a shadow of care between them, other than the idle wish that might cross their minds that they were as free from care as she. Tho Prince was waiting for her as she touched the last stair, and took her hand, making some courtierliice reproof for her delay above. “I have been in trouble,” she said. “I could not come down before. Prince, if I told you that I had lost all the Sangrefield possessions—” “It is not possible?' 1 he said, staggering backward. “It is entirely possible,” she said, calmly; and she looked curiously at the pale face that bore still the imprint of the dark Asiatic ancestor that first sought the Italian shores. “And you see. Prince,” she said, pensively, “that without the fortune you thought it held, this hand is valueless to you.” “Not valueless,” said the suitor, gathering his breath after the shook, “not valueless, but simply, as you say, impossible.” ‘ 'lmpossible,''said Catharine, bowing her head. The Prince turned with downcast face. “There is nothing left for me,” said he sadly, “but adieu.” “Adieu,” said Catharine. ‘"But first remember, Prince, I only said the loss of fortune was entirely possible, as it is to anyone. 1 did not say that I had met with it. I have not. But, all the same, adieu,” and she turned lightly, and sent- old Miss Sangrefield to hobble down tho hah upon her cane, and bid the lover good by—an act which that lady made swift and emphatic. “There,” said Rose, clambering down from the table under the hall lamp, which had been lighted a few moments before, and finding herself just safe from Vennard’s arms, “I believe that is the last of the Christmas greens, and now we shall see what we shall see. Nonsense, Vennard. this time doesn’t count, because I have just put it up, don’t you know,” and she stepped back to admire the bit of mistletoe she had twisted about the lamp, and whose weird waxen berries had that day come down from tho Virginia woods. “Did you see the Prince take his conge? That sort of thing doesn’t know that girls seasoned by as manv Washington winters as we are have seen too many of his kind not to picture him in his hours of seclusion studying the columns of ‘wants’ in the daily paper." And then she had thrown a shawl around her, and followed Vennard to the other gallery for a breath of the frosty air, and the far-off airy melody of distant city bells ringing for the Chrisma as eve. Katharine came down the hall, and stayed her steps, looking up at the mistletoe, bending back her head, the white throat curving like a swan’s. “It was a sacred thing once,” she said, “cut by white-gowned priests with a golden knife —priests full of the knowledge of mysteries. Who knows that it is not a sacred thing now, that it has no occult power—” And just then she glanced in the long hall mirror, and who was this that had come in as Rose and Vennard went out, that stood there, the hat half lifted to the face, the face radiant with youth and hope, the oolor fresh upon the cheek, the sparkle splendid in the hazei eye, the yellow hair clustering round the white brow like a young Greek god’s? Seen even in a mirror, there was no mistaking the passion of that glance, the hope, the fear, the hesitation, the gathering’ determination. Should she tell this man that it was a possible thing to lose the Sangrefield possessions? Never! It was possible, indeed, to lose wealth, but not possible ever again to insult Adrian with a suspicion. Suddenly the color flushed up her throat and face as she gaze, and in another moment she felt tho tears would spin out of her eyes if those eyes had not caught sight of the hook of photographs and autographs lying on the table before her —one of Miss Sangrefield's memorials of her guest—and slie tore it open and bent above it. But to what use? She heard the step draw near. She felt the half extended arm behind her. She felt the warm breath fan her cheek, and then she remembered that she was standing under the mistletoe. Would he dare to take advantage of that? To make a jest of his love? Suddenly she faced him. The others had all gone singing, and dancing, and laughing under the archway to light the ynle-log on the dining-room hearth. “Adrian,” she said, the face flashing again, all but ttie white forhead, the white, down-dropped lids, I have seen Sarah Sangrefield.” And then the crimson swept over her forehead too, and the beautiful face grew red and redder; and what was there to do but to hide it on Adrian’s breast, as they stood there undor the misletoe, folded so close that doubt could never come between them?
The Tell-Tale. St. Nicholas for January. With the aid of a pair of compasses or a pencil and a bit of string, carefully draw two concentric half-circles—that is, from the same center, and one about a half an inch within the other. The size of the design makes but little difference, but the result is more easily seen if the diagram is as large as convenient Divide this double naifcircle into a number of compartments, and in each place a letter of the alphabet, a numeral or a name, as the fancy may dictate; the object being that there shall be no possible mistaking of one compartment for another. Rule straight lines from each compartment to the common center. Now take a small button —a shoebutton is as good as any—and fasten a bit of fine silk thread about eight inches long to it, making a knot in each end of the thread. Now' let one of the party take the thread by the end, and hold it so far above tlm figure that the button shall hang about an inen and a half above the paper. Let him fix liis mind firmly upon one of the compartments, and then close his eyes. Very soon the button will develope a pendulum-like motion, and before long, generally in about three minutes, it will begin to move toward the compartment of which the holder is thinking. It really seems, at the first glance, that the button itself is influenced by the unconscious exertion of will on the part of the experimenter. But close investigation will reveal the fact that tho hand moves with a slight tremulous motion, which, being transmitted through a fine thread, moves the button. Much amusement can be had by putting the names of people in the and then seeing of which one the experimenter is thinking. Santa Claus. Santa Claus was one of the oldest ideas of the Celtic West in Pagan times, as ho was of the Pagan East before. In Christian times he was still regarded with religious reverence, sitting, as he has sat for ages in Egypt and elsewhere, in the arms of his mother, Santa Claus was, in fact, the child Jesus in the middle ages, and throughout that period the festive creed of Germany and all Celtio Europe was that he visited all family dwellings of good Christians on tho eve of his anniversary, and brought with him gifts and blessings for the children. This beautiful tradition is still to be found lingering in Germany, though Santa Claus does not seem to be specially connected with it by name. The truth of this original belief is plainly enough indicated by the word “clause,” which, in the Gothic or German, means “child” and “son.” Santa Claus formerly meant the Holy Child. Karly Training iu Economy. Boston Courier. “Smith, how is it that you always get such good bargains,” queried Jones. “Because I was taught from infancy habits of thrift, patience and economy.” replied Smith. “My father was always drumming it into me to ‘wait a little while and you’ll purchase cheaper.’ Why, even my mother used to sing, ‘By low, baby,’ before I could walk.” Jones was perfectly satisfied with the explanation. Betrayed the Head of the Family. Lewiston Journal. A Lewiston family recently received a visit from a well known clergyman. In the family is an active little girl of three years. Sho listened very attentively while grace was being said, and at its conclusion she looked up in the clergyman’s face and said, “’Tain’t pretty to talk so at the table. My papa don’t” The Real Color Line. Fred. DonglupA. The color lino is not altogether a matter of color, it is a question of condition. The Southern people do not fear contamination by physical contact with the blacks. I have scon a noted belle of white society ride by tbe side of a blaek man; but he was there as a driver. The South-
erners persist in looking on the blacks as menials, and will associate with them on that understanding, but not otherwise. The remedy lies in the education and enrichment of the colored people. When they amass property and become intelligent, then the color line will vanish. Christmas Guests. The quiet day in winter beauty closes, And sunset clouds are tinged with crimson dye, As if the blushes of our faded roses Came back to tint this somber Christmas sky. A lonely crow floats o'er the upland ranges, A robin carols from the chestnut tree; The voice, which changes not amid our changes Sounds faintly from the melancholy sea. We sit and watch tho twilight darken slowly, Dies the last gleam upon the lone hillside; And in the stillness, growing deep and holy. Our Christmas guests come in this eventide. They enter softly, some with bahy faces, W hose sweet blue eyes have scaroely looked on life; We bid them welcome to their vacant places— They won the peace, and never knew the Btrife. And some with steadfast glances meet us gravely; Their hands point backward to tho paths they trod; Dear ones, we know how long ye struggled bravely, And died upon tho battlefield of God. And some are here whose patient souls were riven. By our hard words and looks of cold disdain; Ah, loving hearts, to speak of wrong forgiven, Ye come to visit our dark world again! But_One there is, more kind than any other, Whose presence iillsthe silent house with light; The Prince of Peace, our gracious Elder Brother, Comes to His birthday feast with us to-night: Thou who wast bora and cradled in a manger Hast gladdened our poor earth with hope and rest; O, Best-beloved, eomc not as a stranger, But tarry, Lord, our Friend and Christmas Guest. —Good Words.
THE QUAKER POET. A Tribute to Wliitticr and the Community to Which he Relongs. George William Curtis, in January Ilarper. The Friends have been always an important element of the population in Rhode Island, and the Newport Yearly Meeting is a kind of annual convocation or general assembly of that silent communion which is very familiar. In the older days, when the narrow streets of the town were filled with the plain garb of the brethren and sisters from all parts of the country, how true seemed the gracious words: “The very garments of a Quaker seem incapable of receiving a soil, and cleanliness in them to be something more than the absence of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily, and when thoy como up in bands to their Whitsun conferences, whitening the eastern streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United Kingdom, they show the troops of the Shining Ones.” If the young Whittier was ever brought to the May meeting in old Newport, he would have thought it a soft diabolic enticement if some fancy had whispered to him that one day he would bo held in reverence and honor as a writer of verses, and that his portrait would he cherished among the chief ornaments of a school of his unworldly fraternity. The muses were but pagan goddesses to the older Quakers. James Naylor and George Fox would liavo put aside the sweet solicitations of color and of song, as St Anthony avoided the blandishments of the lovely syren whom he knew to be the devil. But gently the modern Quakers have been won over. That grim austerity, as of the Puritan, has yielded to kindly sympathies, and the wholesome gayeties and the refining graces of life are not disowned by the quietists. Nay, even in a severer day was there not a certain elegance of taste in Friends’ raiment? If the bonnet were rigidly ot the Quaker type, was it not of exquisite texture? Was not the fabric of the dress as delicate and soft as if woven in Persian looms? Was a sense of Quaker aristocracy unknown, and has no Quaker equipago been seen which rolled with an air as superior as that of a cardinal’s carriage? But what a delightful character the Quaker tradition imparted to everything that it touched! A certain grave and sweet simplicity, -an air of candor and of plain rectitude, a frank and fraternal heartiness—these were all distinctively Quaker. They were imitaledto base ends, indeed, and no rogue so roguish as a counterfeited Quaker no stories of such snug duplicity as those which were told of the smooth knaves in drab. But it was only the homage to virtue. Knaves wore the Quaker garb because the Quaker garb was justly identified with honesty. Those whose early youth was familiar with Friends, as with them and among them, hut not of them, still delight in the recollection, and associate with them still a refined superiority. That the rigid traditions have been relaxed is apparent from the very incident that we have mentioned. The nuses have pouetrated the Friend’s Boarding-School. There is a piano in the hall. There are busts and portraits of famous Friends. There were eloquence and poetry in commemoration of a Quaker poet. There were universal affection and gratitude for tho singer and his song. Bernard Barton was a Quaker poet. But Whittier is the Quaker poet It was a curious illustration of tho happy fusing of differing creeds in a generous human sympathy and admiration that at the Puritan dinner in New York on Forefathers’-day, some years ago, a Roman Catholic, James T. Brady, the famous advocate, said to the Easy Chair, “My poet of poets is Whittier.” John Bright has publicly testified his honor and regard. And who does not? That purity, and simplicity, and native dignity of life blending with the pure, and tender, and humane song—they are a national possession, they are ennobling and inspiring. That example in the sight of all American youth, that steadv fidelity to plain living and high thinking, is inexpressibly valuable. It is not appropriated, and it can not be, by the tranquil religious community to which the poet belongs. It is a common benefit.
Fashions for Girls in Tlieir Teens. Harper’s Bazar. . Wool is preferred for dresses of all kind 6 for girls from thirteen to sixteen years of age, but there are also pretty laced waists of ruby or blue velvet, with the square opening and sleeves of lace or embroidery. Sailor blouse suits of blue flannel, with the skin in wide kilt pleats, are still liked for school dresses, and are made heavy and warm for winter. Button gaiters for misses are now made with the low English heels that are becoming popular along with other wholesome English fashions. Felt round hats, fishwife pokes, pointed high above the forehead, and turbans of cloth, velvet, or fur are worn by young girls. A pale blue jersey with a white vest and broad white Herculese braid may be worn with either a blue or white cashruere skirt. Tan-colored gloves of either dressed or undressed kid are furnished in misses’ size, and are appropriate with any dress. Calfskin of light quality is used this winter both for ladies’ and for young girls’ shoes. Navy blue serge for girls, trimmed with either black, blue or cardinal-red braid. The Great Gambler of Saratoga, Philadelphia News. A gambler passes along, having upon his arm a handsome, neatly dressed girl. She is evidently his daughter. This is Charlie Reed. He has a breeding farm near Gallatin, Tenn., where he has owned and bred some very famous race horses. He inherited the Southern proclivity for gaming, and came North a few years ago with a stable of horses. When John Morrissey died he became his successor in the great gambling house at Saratoga. He makes books on the races at this great watering place and devotes his time to games of chance. They say he is a good fellow, and that he has lost a good deal of money during the past season. He is educating his children in Germany, and trying to start them on tho road to a higher life than he leads. _ How Mme. De Stael Looked. She was ugly, and not of an intellectual ugliness. Her features w’ere coarse, and the ordinary expression rather vulgar. She had an ugly mouth, and one or two irregular prominent teeth, which perhaps gave her countenance an habitual gayety. Her eye was full, dark, and expressive, and when she declaimed, which was almost whenever she spoke, she looked eloquent, and one forgot that she was plain. On the whole, she was singularly un feminine, and if in conversation one forgot she was ugly, one forgot, also, that she was a woman. Do not buy your watches, diamonds or silverware till you see our mammoth stock, at Marcy “The” Jeweler’s. We make the lowest prices of any house in the city.
WHIMSICALITIES. Boston Star: A “sales lady” wants a position, in a retailing store. A “bar gentleman” would, like to find a place in a saloon. “Men-“an4' “women.” ns they were called in the Bible, are going out of fashion. Norristown Herald; When Mrs. Klemm, of’ Dedham, died, her husband, who was in good’ health, said: “I will follow her in two weeks.” He faithfully kept his word. Some husbands would havo meanly violated their pledge, and ! been looking around for another wife in less than two months. A mother-in-law is a very good friend, And oft smooths the troubles of lifo With kindly advice, though soraocynics pretend That her aim is to part man and wife. Thun puy her respect and you’ll never repent. For some day her check she may draw, And kindly assist yon to make up the rent— Be kind to your- mother-in-law. — Boston Ooorlen. At the Rink. A conceited, long-legged young man Was skating with a maiden named Ann, When up flew the floor And made him feel sore, And split his pants from Beersfieba to Dan. —Norristown HcrnW. Tho Season. Now comes the festive plumber With his kit. While through your brain dark visions Direful flit Os notes of hand and mortgages His bill to pay; And you can make no protest, for You have no say. —Wilmington Star. The Hired Girl’s Fun. Pittsburg Chronicle. These frosty mornings the hired girl has grate fun with the fires. Unquestionably False. Louisville Courier-Journal. It is said that Jefferson Davis aimed at absolute powor. This assertion cannot be true, hfrv body in this world aims at absolute power except a married woman. A Cold Night. Virginia Enterprise. “Very cold last night, Mr. Townsend," observed the reporter. “Cold! I should say so. Wonthome; lita candle; jumped into bed; tried to blow candle oufa, couldn't do it; blaze frozen; had to break it off, ' replied Mr. Townsend. A Ream Would Do. Boston Courier. “John,” said the plumber to his boy,l"go to the stationery store and bring me a ream of foolscap.” “Yes, sir; a ream, sir; will a ream be enough!" “Yes; a ream will do. I intend to make ont only one bill this morning.” Western Justice. The Graphic. “You think he stole those horses?” “No doubt of it,” replied the prosecuting attorney. “Why didn’t yon examine him and find out?"’ “No hurry; ho will be here for sometime. I thought I would wait until the men got through." I “Through what?” “Hanging him.” Where He Was. Burlington Hawkeye. • ‘Where were you when the first shot was fired in this row?” the magistrate asked the policeman ; who made the complaint. “Right on the spotright in the crowd,” the officer replied, proudlyv “And where were you when the second shot was fired?” And with blushing reserve the offiooc modestly admitted: “Three blocks down the street, under the stone bridge at the end -of the culvert” Mr. Jarphly Brings Home a Fiddle. Pittsburg Chronicle. “What is that, Jeremiah,” asked Mrs. Jarph'.y. "It's a fiddle I've brought home, my dear,", answered Mr. Jarphly, in a propitiatory tone. “But you can’t play on it!” “I know it, Martha, but I’m going to learm” “What is the railroad fare from Pittsburg to Indiana, Jeremiah?” “I’m sure I don’t know, Martha; what do you want to know that for?” “They say divorces are cheap out there,”meditatively replied Mrs. Jarphly. An Easily-Surmounted Difficulty. Merchant Traveler. A certain punster in Cincinnati, interested in , the street ear lines of the city, recently received) an addition to his family, and a friend met him ( two or three days afterward. “Hello!” was the greeting. “Stranger at your house, I hear." “Yes,” was the reply. 1 'Boy or girl?” “Girl. lam sorry, too, for I wanted a boy sol I could call him ’Oscar.” “Don't let that disturb you,” remarked tho other wretch; “just call her G'ar'Une.”
On the Safe Side. Detroit Free Press. “Well!” he queried as ho turned around in his chair. “Yes, sail—l wanted to spoke to you a rninit,” replied the old man, as he hung on the door. “All right; come in. Ah! you are Moses.” “Yes, sah. Las’ y’ar, do day befo* Christmas, you—you presented dis ole manwid a turkey.” “So l did—sol did. I remember the circumstance now.” “ ’Zackley, sah. I called to say dat in case ” “You want to know if I am going to present I you with another turkey this year?” “Dat’s about de size of it, sah.” “Yes—um. Well, perhaps.” “Dat’s what I reckoned on, sah, an’ I was i gwine to remark dat las’ y’ar you forgot do oys- , tors an’ crackers to stuff it wid, an’ I had to goan’ sell dat bird for fo’ty cents and put de money into pork. ” Divorce Etiquette. London Truth. A delicate question of etiquette remains vet to be solved by divorcod parties. A separated husband has always been expocted to wear mourning for his mother-in-law, and to attend her fun- ; eral as one of her family. A separated wife was 1 expected to stay three months in black apd unadorned merino garments after her fatherin' . law died. Not to have done so would have been . regarded as a proof of hardness of heart and ( want of savor vivre. Talleyrand always wore j black shirt-studs when a relative of the wife 1 died, evep though all her family resided in! England and in India. .She was a divorcee, and long went in Paris under the name of Madame Grant. As she was a beauty, had not a good memory, and gave accounts of her origin which i did not tally with each other, sho was to be a spy of the English government. Her , want of wit should have saved her from tho iny- 1 putation. An Expurgated Bible. *; Pittsburg Commercial, ; A Bible was sold in London the other day fori $19,500. It must have been one from which the Ten Commandments and other uncomfortable passages had been eliminated. Why the Steamer Turned, Tho steamer was sailing away, away, Mid wavings and kisses and tears; “A prosperous journey” had each one pledged, And “a truce to gloom and fears.” But a sudden commotion arose on board, For the elegant Mrs. Lee Had forgotten a very important thing, And almost wild was she. “A week without it?—no. no!” she cried, Strode the Captain to the front, “Let the steamer turn!” he shouted, “she Has forgotten her Sozodont!” When a Lady Boos Traveling You will find in her valise amid her toilet articles a bottle of Sozodont. When a gentleman starts for a journey ho never forgets his Sozodont. Wliy? He and she are well aware that among the most treasured possessions of a human being are white, pure, healthy teeth, hard, rosy, healthy gums, and a sweet, puro breath: and ho and she are as well aware that nothing so contributes to the possession and retention of these desirable gifts as the free and constant use of Sozodont, without any manner of doubt the most valuable dentifrice now in use.