Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 8 February 1885 — Page 6

6

The Lost Shwip. Do massa ob de sheenfoV I Dat guard de sbe.:pfT kin, I,ook out in de gloomeria’ meadow® Whar de long night rain begin—--80 he call to de Inrclin' ehepa’d, 2s iny sheep, is dey all c>ui in? Oh. den says da hr.-elin’ ehepa’d, Dee's some. Jey’s black and thin, And some, (ley's po’ ol’ wedda’s. But da res' day’s ail brucg in, But d# res’ Joy's all bruug in. Den da massa ob de sheepfol’ Dat guard de sheepfol’ Inn, Goes down in de gloomeria’ meadow®, Whar de long night rain begin— So he le’ down de ha’s oJ> de sheepfol’, Callin' sos, Come in, enrae in, Callin’ sof’, Come in, oome In! Den up t’ro' de gloomerio’ meadows, T’ro’ ae col' night rain and win’, And up t’ro’ de gloomerin’ rain-pas Whar de sleet fa’ pie’cin’ thin, De po’ los’ sheep ob de sheepfol’ Dey all comes gadderiu’ in, De po’ W sheep ob do sheepfol’ Dey all comes gadderiu’ in. - - In Arc ad y. In yon hollow Damon lies, Lost in slumber deep. (liush, hush ye shepherd girls— Break not his sleep!) Phyllis passes tiptoe by: Whither is she hieing/ (Peep, peep, ye shepherd girls—- __ He for her is dying!) Now she pauses, now she bends; Ah! she kissed him purely. (2.o<>k awav, ye shepherd girls— Frown, frown, demurely!) See! he clips her in his arms, She who was the proudest. (Laugh, laugh, ye shepherd girls— Laugh, laugh, your loudest!) —Oosmo Mcnkhouse, in the Magazine of Art. Brilliant!*. The best things any mortal hath Axe those which every mortal shares. —Lucy T jar com. Hearts that love may find heart s ease At every turn on every way. —Swinburne. Foul, cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold that's put to use more gold begets. —Shakspeare. Hope not the cure of sin till self is dead; Forget it in love’s service, and the debt Thou eanst not pay the angels shall forget. —Whittier. Home is the sphere of harmony and peace, The spot where angels find a resting place, When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth. —Mrs. Hale. Fair Is the Sea. TUr is the sea; and fair the sea-borne billow. Blue from the depth and curled with crested argent; Fair is the sea; and fair the smooth sea margent. The brown dunes waved with tamarisk and willow; Fair is the sea: and fair the seaman’s daughter, Fairer than all fair things in earth and ocean; Fair is the sea; and fair the wayward motion, The wavering glint of light on dancing water; Fair is the sea, and fair the heavens above it. And fair at ebb the grass-green wildernesses; Fair is the sea, and fair the stars that love it, Rising from waves new-washed with Orient tresses; Fair is the sea. of all fair sea things fairest, Stella, thou sea born star, art best and rarest! —J. A- Sy moods, in Athentenm. Beal and Mimic. Dora seated at the play Weeps to see the hero perish— Hero of a Dresden day; . Fit for China nymphs to cherish; O, that DorAe heart would be Half so soft and warm for mo! When the flaring lights are out Hi* heroic deeds are over; Gone his splendid strut and shout, Gone his raptures of a lover, While my humdrum heart you’d find True, though out of sight and mind. Life. When violets bloom and soft winds play,— When fleckless skies float o’er the earth, — When all is youth, and joy, and mirth,— Life’s aim is happiness, we say, When violets bloom, and soft winds play. When summer joys have all gone bv, — When frowning skies hang o’er tfie world,— When hope’s gay banners all are furled, — Life’s aim is usefulness, we sigh, When summer joys have all gone by. £k —Emma Carleton, in the Current. Three. We were three who sailed at morn together ’Neath the dappled, lustrous, exquisite sky, Singing a rich old Normandie ballad— Maud, friendship and I. Were three who came back at eve together, All silently, breathing never a word; Still Maud and I in the boat were sailing;— But love was the third. —Flora Ellice Stevens.

HORTICULTURAL. HOBBIES. A 1100,000 Orchid House—Gould's Palms— Novelties in Plants. Sew York Hal! and Express. “What is the latest rage among the finest specimens of plants?” asked a reporter of a florist. “The orchids are, decidedly. They are coming into favor on account of their many shapes and varied shades of color. They are plants which grow without any soil, being usunlly tied to a block of wood or a cork, suspended in the air. They require nothing but water to nourish them. The plants are very unattractive, but tho flowers which grow on them are beautiful beyond comparison. They are parasites, and grow well in South America. In Europe one large horticulturist, with acres of green-houses, employs fourteen German naturalists to do nothing else but experiment with orchids and produce new varieties. In the United States the universal love for plants has not reached a high enough plane to justify such an enormous expense. A single specimen of the scarce kind costs $1,000.” “Do any private conservatories grow them?” “Yes. Mrs. Pierrepont Morgan has a greenhouse filled with the largest variety of orchids (specimens in tho United States, and among private people not in tho business perhaps iu the world. They could not be bought for a hundred thousand dollars. She employs several naturalists and every three or four years new specimens are produced. They grow slowly and very delicately, and for that reason horticulturists do not give much attentiou to them.” “Is it a fact that most wealthy men wb<?' build green-houses fill them with their favorite plant?” “With few exceptions such is tho case. Mr. Jay Gould has a magnificent conservatory at Irvington, which cost, they say. $350,000. His mania is for palms. Every variety of palm in the world is to be found there. They are the most valuable, too, in the world. John Hoey has a green houso at his residence at Long Branch. His great specialty is to gratify the curiosity of his friends every summer by exhibiting to them over a million of plants bedded in the open ground. He has the finest collection of stove plants in the country. J. B. Colgate has a fine conservatory at Yonkers. His hobby is roses of every variety. Charles J. Osborne grows chrysanthemums, anemones and rhododendrons at his summer residence at Rye.” How Diphtheria Can Be Simply Cured. Mew York Star. _ An uptown surgeon, who makes tho diseases of women and children a specialty, informed a Sunday Star man that in consequence of the re cent severity of the weather much diphtheria was prevalent among his patients. “By the way, there's n new treatment for this disease,” ho sani. ‘ which has recently been introduced from France. It is simple ar.d efficacious.” “And it consists of what!” “Pouring equal parts of turpentine and liquid Ur into a tin pan and setting firo to the mixture. k dense mass of smoke arises, but that doesn’t matter.” “What effect has thi3 upon the patientr “The patient experiences relief at once: the fibrinous membrane soon becomes detached, the choking and ..ittle stop, and the patent falls into a peaceful slumber and inhales the smoke with apparent pleasure.” “Have you tried itl” ‘•Yes, and successfully, but I should advice any one who wishes to teet it tg have tho experiment administered by a professional n au.” (heat Bargains jd working and dress pants, at the Model Cloth ino Cos.

IN OBJECT OF LOVE. Mary I. Wilkin®, la Harper®’ bazar. There were no clouds in the whole sky except a few bleak violet colored ones in the west Between them the slcy showed a clear, cold yellow. Tho air was very still and the trees stood out distinctly. “Thar’s goin’to be a heavy frost, sure enough,” said Ann Millet “I’ll have to git the squashes in.” She stood in the door, surveying the look outside, as she said this. Then she went in, and presently emerged with a little black shawl pinned closely over her head, and began work. This was a tiny white-painted house, with a door and one window front, and a little piazza, over which the roof jutted, and on which tho kitchen door opened on the rear corner. The squashes were piled up on this piazza in a great yellow and green heap. “A splendin lot they air,” said Ann. “I’d orter be thankful.” Ann always spoke of her obligation to duty, and never seemed to think of herself as performing the duty itself. “I’d orter be thankful,” said she always. Her shawl, pinned closely over her hair and ears, showed the small oval of her face. The greater part of it seemed to he taken up by a heavy forehead, from under which her deep-set blue eyes looked with a strange, solemn expression. She looked alike at everything, the clear cold sky and the squashes, soberly and solemnly. This expression, taken in connection with her little delicate old face, had something almost uncanny about it. Some people complained of feeling nervous when Ann looked at them. “Thar’s Mis’ Stone cornin’,” said she. “Hope to goodness she won’t stop an’ hender me! Lor 5 sakes! I orter hev more patience.” A tall, stooping figure came up the street, and passed at her gate hesitatingly. “Good-evenin’, Ann.” “Good even,’ Mis’ Stone. Come in, won’tjye?” Mrs. Stone came in the gate, and walked up to the piazza, and stopped. “Gettin’ in your squashes, ain't you?” “Yes; I didn’t dare risk ’em out to-night, it’s so cold. I ieft ’em out last yeax*, an’ they got touched, an’ it about spoilt ’em!” “Well, I should be kinder afraid to risk ’em; it’s a good deal colder than I had any idea of when I came out. I thought I’d run over to Mis’ Maxwell’s a minute, so I jest clapped on this head-tie, an' this little cape over my shoulders, an’ I’m chilled clean through. I don’t know but I’ve tuk cold. Yes, I’d take ’em in. We got ourn in last week, such as they was. We ain’t got more’n half as many as you hev. I shouldn’t think you could use ’em all, Ann.” “Well, I do. I allers liked squashes, an’ Willy likes ’em too. You'd orter see him brush round me, a-roundin’ up his back an’ purrin’ when I’m a-scrapin’ of ’em out of the shell. He likes ’em better’n fresh meat.” “Seems queer for a cat to like such things. Ourn won’t touch ’em; he’s awful dainty. How nice an’ big your cat looks a settin’ thar in the window!” “He's a-watchin’ of me. He jumped up thar jest the minute I come out.” “He’s a good deal of company fur you, ain’t he?” “Yes. he is. What on airth I should do this long winter that’s comin,’ without him, I don’ know. Everybody wants somethin’ that’s alive in the house.” “That’s go. It must be pretty lonesome for you anyway. Ruth an’ me often speak of it, when wo look over here, ’specially in the winter season, some of them awful stormy nights we hev.” “Well, I don't mean to complain, anyway. I’d orter be thankful. I’ve got my Bible an’ Willy, an’ a roof over my head, an’ enough to eat an’ wear; an’ a good many folks hev to be alone, as fur as other folks is concerned, on this airth. An’ p’haps some other woman ain’t lonesome because I am, an’ maybe she’d be of the kind that didn’t like cats, an’ wouldn’t hev got along half as well as me. No: I’ve got a good many mercies to be thankful fur —more’n i kin count, an’ more’n I deserve. I never orter to complain.” “Well, if all of us looked at our mercies raore’n our trials, we’d be a good deal happier. But, sakes! I must be goin’. I’m catchin’ cold, an’ I’m henderin’ you. It’s supper-time too. You’ve got somethin’ cookin’ in the house that smells good.” “Yes; it’s some stewed temarter. I allers like somethin’ I kin eat butter an’ pepper on sech a night as this.” ‘ Well, somethin’ of that kind is good. Goodnight, Ann.” “Good night, Mis’ Stone. Goin’ to rneetin’ tonight?” “I’m goin’ es Ruth don’t. One of us has to stay with the children, you know. Good-nigh t.” Mrs. Stone had spoken in a very high-pitched tone all the while. Ann was somewhat deaf. She had spoken loudly and shrilly too; so now there was a sudden lull, and one could hear a cricket chiruping somewhere about the door. Mr. Stone, pulling her tiny drab cape tighter across her stooping, rounded shoulders, hitched rapidly down the street to her own home, which stood on the opposite side, a little below Ann’s, and Ann went on tugging in her squashes. “I’m glad she’s gone.” sho muttered, looking after Mrs. Stone’s retreating figure, “I didn’t know how to be hendcred a minute. I’d orter liev more patience?” She had to carry in tho squashes one at a time. She was a little woman, and although she had been used to hard work all her life, it had not been of a kind to strengthen her muscles; she had been a dressmaker. So she stepped patiently into her kitchen with a squash and out without one; then in again with one. She piled them up in a heap on the floor in a corner. “They’ll hev to go up on that shelf over the mantel,” said she, “to-morrow. I can’t git ’em up thar to-night an’ go to meetin’ nohow.” She had a double shelf of unpainted pine rigged over the ordinary one for her squashes. After tho squashes were all in, Ann took off her shawl and hung it on a nail behind the kitchen door. Then she set her bowl of smoking hot tomato stew on a little table between the windows, and sat down contentedly. There was a white cloth od the table, and some bread and butter and pie beside the stew. Ann looked at it solomnly. “I’d orter be thankful,” said she. That was her way of saying grace. Then she fell to eating with a relish. This solemn. spiritual-looking old woman loved her food, and had a keen lookout for it. Perhaps she got a spiritual enjoyment out of it, too. besides the lower material one. Perhaps hot 6tewed tomatoes, made savory with butter and pepper and salt, on a frosty November night, had for her a subtle flavor of home comfort and shelter and coziness, appealing to her imagination, besides the commoner one appealing to her palate. Before anything else, though—before seating herself —she had given her cat his saucer or warm milk in a snug corner by the stove. He was a beautiful little animal, with a handsome dark striped coat on his ba<ck end white paws and face. When he had finished lapping his milk he came and stood beside his mistress’s chair while she ate. and purred—he rarely mewed —and 6he gave him bits of bread from her plate now and then. She talked to him too. “Nice Willy,” said she, “nice cat. Got up on the window to see me bring in the squashes, didn’t he? There’s a beautiful lot of ’em, an’ he shall hev some stewed for his dinner to-morrow, so he shall.” And the cat would purr, and rub his soft coat against her, and look as if he knew just what she meant There was prayer-meeting in the church vesti y that evening, and Ann Millet went. She never missed one. The minister, when he entered, always found her sitting there at the head of the third seat from the front in the right hand row—always in the same place, a meek, erect little figure, in a poor tidy black bonnet and an obsolete black coat with no seaui in the whole of the voluminous back. That had been the style of oytside garments when Miss Millet had laid sside dressmaking, and sha had never gone a step further iu fashions. £he had stopped just where she was, and treated her old paturps M tpnsesvatively as she did her Bible, Boe had had a paetty voice, people said, when she wan young, nod aka sang now m a thin sweet quaver the hymns which the minister gave out

TUB INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1885.

She listened in solemn enjoyment to the stereotyped prayers and the speaker’s remarks. He was a dull, middle-aged preacher in a dull country town. After meeting, Ann went up and told him how much she had enjoyed his remarks, and inquired after his wife and children. She always did. To Per a minister was an unpublished apostle, and his wife and family set apart on the earth. No matter how dull a parson labored here, he would always have one disciple in this old woman. When Ann had walked home through the frosty starlight she lit her lamp first, and then she called' her cat She had expected to find him waiting to be let in, but he was not She stood out on her little piazza, which ran along the rear corner of her house by her kitchen-door, and called, “Willy! Willy! Willy!” She thought every minute she would see him come bounding around the corner, but she did not. She called over and over and over, in her shrill, anxious pipe, “Willy! Willy! Willy! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!” Finally she went into the house and waited awhile, crouching, shivering with cold and nervousness, over the kitchen stove. Then she went outside and called again, “Willy! Willy! Willy!” over and over, waiting between the calls, trembling, her dull old ears alert, her dim old eyes strained. She ran out to the road, and looked and called, and down to the dreary garden patch behind the house, among the withered corn stalks and the moldering squash vines all white with frost. Once her heart leaped; she thought she saw Willy coming; but it was only a black cat whicb belonged to one of the neighbors. Then she went into the house and waited alittle while; then out again, calling shrilly, “Willy! Willy! Willy!” There were northern lights streaking the sky; the stars shone steadily through the rosy glow; it was very still, and lonesome, and cold. The little, thin, shiveringoldjwoman standing out-doors, all alone in the rude, chilly night air, under these splendid stars and streaming lights, called over and over anu over the poor little creature which was everything earthly she had to keep her company in the great universe in which she herself was so small. “Willy! Willy! Willy!” called Ann. “Oh, where is that cat? Oh. dear! Willy; Willy!” Sho spent the night that way. Mrs. Stone’s daughter Ruth, who was up with a sick child, heard her. “Miss Millett must have lost her cat,” she told her mother in the morning; “I heard her calling him all night long.” Pretty soon, indeed, Ann came over, her small old face wild and wan. “Hev you seen anything of Willy?” sho asked. “He’s been out all night, an’ I’m afraid somethin’s happened to him. I never knowed him to stay out so before •” When they told her they had not, she went on to the next neighbor’s to inquire. But no one had seen anything of the cat. All that day and night, at intervals, people heard herplaintive,inquiring call. “Willy! Willy! Willy! Willy!” The next Sunday Ann was not out to church. It was a beautiful day, too. “I’m goin’ to run over an’ see es Ann Millet’s sick,” Mrs. Stone told her daughter, when she returned from church. “She wa’n't out to meetin’ to day, and I’m afraid somethin’s the matter. I never knew her to miss goin’.” So she went over. Miss Millet was sitting m her little wooden rocking-chair in her kitchen when she opened the door. “Why, Ann Millet, are you sick?” “No, I ain’t sick.” “You wa’n’tout to meetin’, an’l didn't know— ** “I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin.” “Why, what do you mean?” Mrs. Stone dropped into a chair, and stared at her neighbor. “I mean just what I say. I ain’t never goin’ to meetin’ agin. Folks go to meetin’ to thank the Lord fur blessin’s, I s’pose. I’ve lost mine, an’ I ain’t goin’.” “What hev you lost. Ann?” “Ain’t I lost Willy?” “You don’t mean to say you’re makin’ such a fuss as this over a cat?”

Mrs. Stone could make a good deal of disapprobation and contempt manifest in her pale, high featured face, and she did now. “Yes, I do.” “Well, I ’ain’t nothin’ agin cats, but I must say I'm beat Why, Ann Mi (let, it’s downright sinful fur you to feel so. Os course you set a good deal by Willy; but it ain't ns es he was a human creature. Cuts is eats. For ray part I never thought it was right to set by animals as es they was babies. ” “I can’t hear what you say.” “I never thought it was right to set by animals as es they was babies.” “I don’t keer. It’s comfortin’ to have live creatures about you, an’ I ’ain’t never lied any thing like other women. I ’ain’t hed no folks of my own senco I kin remember. I’ve worked hard all my life, an’hed nothin’ at all to love, an’ I’ve thought I orter be thankful all the same. But I did want as much as a cat.” “Well, as I said before, I’ve nothin’ agin cats. But I don’t understand any human bein’ with an immorial soul a-settin’ so much by one.” “I can’t hear what 3’ou say.” Ann could usually' hear Mrs. Stone’s high voice without any difficulty, but to day she seemed deafer. “I don’t understand any human bein’ with an immortal soul a-settin’ so much by a cat.” “You’ve got folks, Mis’ Stone.” “I know I hev; but folks is trials sometimes. Not that my children are. though. I've got a good deal to be thankful for, I’ll own, in that way. But, Ann Millet, I didn’t think you was one to sink down so under any trial. I thought the Lord would be a comfort to you.” “I know'all that, Mis’ Stono. But when it comes to it I’m here, an’ I ain’t thar; an’ I’ve got hands, an' I want somethin’ I kin touch.” Then the poor soul broke down, and sobbed out loud, like a baby: “I ’ain’t—never felt as es I’d orter begretch other —women their homes and their folks. I thought— p’haps—l could get along better without’em than—some; an’ the Lord knowed it, an’ seein’ thar wa’n’t enough to go round, He gave ’em to them that needed ’em most. I ’ain’t —never —felt —as es I’d orter complain. But—thar —was—cats—enough. I might ’a hed—that —much.” “You kin git another cat, Ann. Mis’ Maxwell’s got some real smart kittens, au’l know she wants to git rid of ’em.” “I don’t want any of Mis’ Maxwell's kittens. I don't never want any other cat” “P’haps yourn will come back. Now don’t take on so.” “What?” “P’haps yourn will come back.” “No, he won’t I'll never see him agin. I’ve felt jest that way about it from the first Somebody’s stole him, or he’s been p’soned an’ crawled away an’ died, or he’s beeu shot for his fur. I heerd thar was a boy over tho river makin’ a cat-skin kerridge blanket, an 1 I went over thar an’ asked him, an’ he said he hadn’t never shot a cat like Willy. But I don’ know. Boys ain’t brought up any too striet I hope he spoke the truth.” “Hark! I declar’ I thought I heard a cat mew somewhar! But I guess I didn’t I don’t hear it now. Well. I*m sorry, Ann. I s’pose I've got to go; thar’s dinner to git, an’ the baby’s consider’hle fretty to day. Why, Ann Millet, whar’s your squashes?” “Whats” “Where are your squashes?” “I throwed ’em away out in the field. Willy can’t hev none of ’em now, an’ I don’t keer about ’em myself.” Mrs. Stone looked at her in horror. When she got home she told her daughter that Ann Millet was in a dreadful state of mind. and she thought the minister ought to see her. She believed she should tell him if she was not out to meeting that night. “She was not. This touch of grief had goaded that meek, reverer*'al nature into fierceness. The childish earnestness which she had had iu religion sho had now in the other direction. Ann Millet, in spite of all excuses that could be made for her, was for the time a wicked, rebellious old woman. And she was as truly so as as if this petty occasion for it had been a graver one in other people’s estimation. The next day the minister called on her, stimulated by Mrs. Stone's report. He did not find her so outspoken; her awe of him restrained her. Still, this phase of her character was a revelation to him. He told his wife, when be returned home, that he never should have known it was Ann Millet j In the course of the call a rap came at the kitchen door. Ann rose and answered it, hopping nervously across tlie floor. She returned to the minister with more distress in her face than ever. “Nothin’ but a little gal with a Malty cat,” said she, “The children hev got wind of my losin’ Willy, an’ they mean it all right, but it seems as if I should flyf They keep cornin’ and bringjn’ cats. They’ll find a cat that they think mebbe is Willy, an* bo they bring hint to show me. They'vs brought Malty an’ whits eats, an! eaU all Malty. They’ve brought yaller cats an* black, an’ thar

wa’n’t, one of them looked any like Willy. Then they’ve brought kittens that they knowed wa’n’t Willy, .but they thought mebbo I’d like ’em instead of him. They mean all right, I know; y’re real tender hearted, but it *most kills me. Why, they brought me two little kittens that hadn't got their eyes open, jest before you come. They was striped an' white, an’ they said they thought they’d grow up to look like Willy. They were the Hooper children, an’they’knowed him.” It would have been ludicrous if the poor old woman’s distress had not been so genuine. However, Mr. Beal, the minister, was not a man to see the ridiculous side; he could simply be puzzled, and that he was. It was a case entirely outside his experience, and he did not know how to deal with it Ho wondered anxiously what he had best say to her. Finally he went aw'ay without saying much of anything; he was so afraid that what he said might be out of proportion to the demands of the case. It seemed to him bordering on sacrilege to treat this trouble of Ann Millet’s like a genuine affliction, though, on the other hand, that treatment was what her state of mind seemod to require. Going out the door, he stopped and listened a minute; he thought he heard a cat mew. Then he concluded he was mistaken, and went on. He watched eagerly for Ann the next meeting night, but she did not come. It is doubtful whether or no she ever would have done so if she had not found the cat. She had a nature which could rally an enormous amount of strength for persistency. But the day after the meeting she had occasion to go down cellar for something. The cellar stairs led up to the front part of the house; indeed, the cellar was under that part only. Ann went through her chilly sitting- room—she never used it except in summer—and opened the cellar door, which was in the front entry. There was a quick rush from the gloom below, and Willy flew up the cellar stairs. “Lor’ sakes!” said Ann, with a white, shocked face. “He has been down thar all the while. Now I remember. He followed me when I came through here to git my cloak that meetin’ night, an’ he wanted to go down cellar, an’ I let him. I thought he wanted to hunt. Lor’ sakes!” She went back into the kitchen, her knees trembling. The cat followed, brushing against her and purring. She poured out a saucer of milk, and watched him hungrily lapping. He did not look as if he had suffered, though he had been in the cellar a week. But mice were plenty in this old house, and he had probably foraged successfultyfor himself. Ann watched him, the white awed look still on her face. “I s’pose he mewed an’l didn’t hear him. Thar he was all the time, jest whar I put him; an’ me a-blamin’ of the Lord, an’ puttin’ of it on Him. I’ve been an awful wicked woman. I ain’t been to meetin’, an’ I’ve talked, an’— Them squashes I throw awav! It’s been so warm they ’ain’t froze, an’ I don’t deserve it. I hudn t orter hev one of ’em: I hadn’t orter hev anythin’. I’d orter offer up Willy. Lor’ sakes! think of me a say in’ what I did an’ him down cellar!” That afternoon Mrs. Stone looked across from her sitting room window where she was sewing, and saw Ann slowly and painfully bringing in squashes one at a time. “Look here, Ruth,” she called to her daughter. “Jest you see. Ann Millet’s bringing in them squashes she threw away. I don’t believe but what she’s come to her senses.” The next meeting night Ann was in her place. The minister saw her, rejoicing. After meeting he hurried out of his desk to speak to her. She did not seem to be coming to see him as'usual. When she looked up at him there was an odd expression on her face. Her old cheeks were flushing. “I am rejoiced to see you out, Miss Millet,” said the minister, shaking her hand. “Yes. I thought I’d come out to-night” “I am so happy to see you are feeling bettor,” “The cat has come back,” said Ann.

THE LIME-KILN CLUB. Brother Gardner Hankers to Met. a Square Up and Down Mau. Detroit Free Press. Elder Toots having got most of his feet under the red-hot stove, and Colonel Cahoots having succeeded in knocking down a bust of Plato and wrecking SSOO worth of relics, Brother Gardner arose and said: “What I hanker arter am to meet a plumb up an’ down man. Dar am pussons in dis club who wabble about like a loose wagon wheel. One day dey greet you wid a grin as soft as June, an’ de uex’ day dey doan’ know you as you pass on de street I doan' mean to hurt no man’s feelin’s, but I mean to be pinmb. “If Whalebone Howker should come oberto my house an’ ax de loan of a dollar I wouldn’t keep him on de hooks fur half an hour fur a decision. I should at once reply to him: ’Whalebone, de man who uses money aimed by his wife at de wash tub to buy lottery tickets can’t get no dollar outer me.’ When a man axes my religion I doan’ beat aroun’ de bush to find out if he has found a short cut to heaben, but I denounce myself as a Baptist an’ take my chances by de ole road. “When you think yes or no doan’ hesitate to say so. Doan’ be leanin* one way one day and some odder way on de nex.’ De man who knows whar to find you won’t go away mad, eben if you decide agin him. Our Samuel Shin am one day gwine to be a statesman, an’ on de nex’ h’es gwine to open a saloon wid a gilded ceilin’. One day you will find him a Methodist, an’ de nex’ you will see him devourin’ a UniversrJist sermon. Meet him in de raornin’. an’ he am a feroshus Republican; cotcli him in de arternoon, an’ he am a good Diuiocrat. “Be plumb up an’ down. If you am sot on bein’ good, stick to it. If you am sot on bein’ bad, doan’ let de perlice bluff you off. If you like a man, tell him he kin hev de use of your snow-sbovel all summer. If you can’t hoe co’n wid him, ax him to buy out or sell out, an’ take some odder cow-path. De wobbly man am a pusson to be shunned. Tryin’ to do bizness wid him am time wasted an’ labor frown away.” Visit of tire Religious Editor. Arkansas Religion* Weekly. Last week the tired editor, after laboring hard in the vineyard, concluded that he would go out among the brethren. While down in the Dry Fork neighborhood we preached at Ebenezer, and accompanied Brother Sam Hay foot home to dinner. There were several of the brethern present, and among them we were pleased to notice old Brother Shopwell. He is an old servant of the Lord, and, had the smallpox kept out of his way, I think that his countenance would have escaped a great wrong. Old Sister Hayfoot. kind reader, hnows how to get up a good dinner. She has our idea of cooking cabbage, for, like us, she thinks that they should be boiled until all of their brittleness melts into the everlasting pot. At the table old Brother Josiah Nanee was called upon to ask a blessing. He performed the duty in a frauk and fearless m&nner. He is not as fast as some men, but, possessing the merit of tenacity, he keeps pegging away until he gits there. After having served the inner man we again assembled in the sitting-room, where Sister Stoveall favored us with a hymn and 75 cents for which she wanted six months’ subscription. One dollar would have struck me with a little more warmth, but in these days of sin and bard times a half loaf is much better than a Boston cracker. Brother Smithfield, a good old soul as ever lived, declares that he will take the paper when he sells his red steer. Gentle reader, do you know of any one who wants to bay a steer? Twelve and a half hands high, and works in harness like a child. I remained all night at Brother Hayfoot’s house and ate breakfast, dinner and supper with him the next day. Gentie reader, don’t forget that steer. Capel’s Mistake. New York Graphic. Mgr. Capel shows how hard it is for the cleverest and best-disposed foreigner to understand the American character when he urges tlie establishment of a fund for the benefit of newspaper men’s survivore. All that such ask is fair play. If they don’t get on, it is hard luck or their own fault, and they won't admit that they deserve any more sympathy than any other class of professional men. In truth, they don’t The prizes of any calling are few, but those of journalism are as great as most Certainly every selfrespecting worker on the American press wonld resent such a fund us an affront to the dignity of his calling, as well as his own independence Perhaps this is foolish pride, but it exists and is powerful. Indeed, at the Press Club reception, on last Monday, many blamed and all regretted the distinguished prelate's well meant words on this subject Ws hold queer views in this country on questions of personal dignity.

FOE THE LITTLE FOLKS. Nellie. Eyes that sparkle as diamonds bright With a wealth of joy untold; A heart untouched with care, and light As dreams that float from the infinite, Is my little * "five-year old.” Here and there she is busy all day, And her pranks are many and bold; Her play is her work and her work is her play, Her step is as light as her heart is gay, My dear little "five-year-old.” Her flaxen crown has its cloud of curls, Worth more than their weight in gold. And I think, as through them ray finger twirls, That fairer by far than glittering pearls Is my merry "five-year-old.” Singing or chattering all day long. No volume her words could hold; Sunshine flowing in waves of song, “Purity,” all unknown to wrong. Is “Nellie,” my "five-year-old.” —August us Treadwell. How to Run. February St. Nicholas. Very few boys know how to run. “Ho, ho!” say a dozen boys. “Just bring on the boy that can ran faster than I can!” But stop a moment. I don’t mean that most boys can’t run fast—l mean they can’t run far. I don’t believe there is one boy in fifty, of those who may read this, who can run a quarter of a mile at a good smart pace without having to blow like a porpoise by the time he has made his distance. And how many boys are there who can run fast, or slow, a full mile without stopping? It hardly speaks well for our race, does it, that almost any animal in creation that pretends to run at all can outrun any of us? Take the smallest terrier dog you can find that is sound and not a puppy, and try a race with him. He’ll beat you badly. He'll run a third faster than you can, and ten times as far; and this with legs not more than six inches long. I have a hound so active that he always runs at least seventy-five m-iles when I stay a day in the woods with him; for he certainly runs more than seven miles an hour, and if I am gone ten hours you see he must travel about seventy-five miles. And then, a good hound will sometimes follow a fox for two days and nights without stopping, going more than 350 miles, and he will do it without eating or sleeping. Then you may have heard how some of the runners of the South African tribes will run for distances—hundreds of miles—carrying dispatches. and making very few stops. I make these comparisons to show that our boys who cannot make a mile without being badly winded are very poor runners. But I believe I can tell the the boys something that will help them to run better. I was a pretty old boy when I found it out, but the first time I tried it I ran a mile and a quarter at one dash, and was not weary or blown. And now I’m going to give you the secret: Breathe through your nose! I had been thinking what poor runners we are, and wondering why the animals can run so far, and it came to me that perhaps this might account for the difference—that they always take air through their nose, while we usually begin to puff through our mouths before we have gone many rods. Some animals, such as the dog and fox, do open their mouths and pant while running, but they do this to cool themselves, and not because they cannot getairenough through their noses. Ifound once, through a sad experience with a pet dog, that dogs must die if their nostrils become stopped. They will breathe through the mouth only while it is forcibly held open; if left to themselves, they will always breathe through the nose. So, possibly, we are intended to take all our breath through the nose, unless necessity drives us to breathe through the mouth. There are many other reasons why we ought to make our noses furnish all the air to our lungs. One is, tho nose is filled with a little forest of hair, which is always kept moist, like all the inner surfaces of the nose, and particles of dust that would otherwise rush into the lungs and make trouble, are caught and kept out by this little hairy net work. Then the passages of the nose are longer and smaller and more crooked than that of the mouth, so that as it passes through them the air becomes warm. But these are only a few reasons why the nose ought not to be switched off and left idle, as so many noses are, while their owners go puffing through their mouths. All trainers of men for racing and rowing, and all other athletic contests, understand this, and teach their pupils accordingly. If the boys will try this plan, they will soon see what a difference it will make in their endurance. After you have run a few rods holding your mouth tightly closed, there will come a time when it will seem as though you could not get air enough through the nose alone. But don’t give it up; keep right ©u, and in a few moments you will overcome this. A little practice of this method will go far to make you the best runner in the neighborhood.

The Little Householder. Chicago herald. “Oh yes, I have all kinds of tenants,” said a kind-faced old gentleman; “but the one that I like the best is a child not more than ten years of age. A few years ago I got a chance to buy a a piece of land over on the West Side, and did so. I noticed that there was an old coop of a house on it, but I paid no attention to it After a while a man came to mo and wanted to know if I would rent it to him. ” M ‘What do you want it for?’ says I.” “ ‘To live in,’ he replied. ** ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you can have it Pay me what yon think it is worth to you.’ “The first month he brought $2, and the second month a little hoy, who said he was the man’s son. came with $3. After that I saw the man once in a while, but in the course of time the boy paid the rent regularly, sometimes $2 and sometimes $3. One day I asked the boy what had become of his father. “ ‘He’s dead, sir,’ was the reply. “ 'ls that so?’ said I. ‘How long since? *' ‘More’n a year,’ he answered. “I took his money, but I made up nay mind that I would go over and investigate, and the next day I drove over there. The old shed looked quite decent I knocked at the door and a little girl let me in. I asked for her mother. She said she didn’t have any. “ ‘Where is she? said I. “‘We don’t know, sir. Bho went away after my father died and we’ve never seen her since.’ “Just then a little girl about three years old came in, and I learned that these three children had been keeping house together for a year and a half, the hoy supporting his two little sisters by blacking boots and selling newspapers and the elder girl managing the house and taking care of the baby. Well, I just had my daughter call on them, and we keep an eye on them now. I thought I wouldn’t disturb them while they are getting along. The next time the boy came with the rent I talked with him a litUe and then I said: “ ‘My boy, you’re a brick. Yon keep right on as you have begun and you will never be sorry. Keep your little sisters together and never leave them. Now look at this.’ “I showed him a ledger in which I had entered up all the money that he had paid me for rent, and I told him that it was all his, with interest ‘You keep right on,’ says I, ‘and I’ll be your banker, and when this amounts to a little more I’ll see that you get a house somewhere of your own.’ That’s the kind of a tenant to have.” Blessing Their Throats. Hartford (Ct.) Dispatch. The celebration of the feast of St Blase, the patron of health, in St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church, yesterday, was marked by a peculiar and impressive ceremony. The church was packed, it having been announced that those desiring it could have their throats blessed at mass as a preventive of diphtheria, pneumonia and kindred diseases. Fr. Hughes and two assistants first knelt in silent prayer, and then requested the people in turn to approach the altar. The Driests repeated the invocation to the patron saint, and, with two lighted candles held in the form of a cross, touched the throat of each person, who also repeated the prayer. Browning's Great Poem a Myth. London Kewi. How many a reader of the stirring poem of “How We Carried the Good News from Ghent to Aix” has wondered what the “good news” was, and why it was carried, supposing the occasion which furnished the theme of the poet’s verses was doubtless of some historic importance. It seems, however, that the poem was one entirely of imagination. Professor Hiram Corson, of Cornell University, who visited Mr. Browning in 18$?, asked him if the verses had any basis of fact Professor Corson writes: “He informed me that they had not The poem was written

off the African coast while on a yachting trip in the Mediterranean. Having been some days R * sea, and feeling the monotony of it, he longed to be on the back of his favorite horse, York, ana wrote the poem descriptive of an imaginary gallop from Gh*mt to Aix, between which places important news ftiust often have been carried in hot haste. Mr. Browning showed mo the original draft of the poem, in pencil, on the fly-leaves of an Italian book he had taken with him—Bartoli's ‘Simboli.’* WHIMSICALITIES, If vour heart with love is laden f'or the girl across the way. And you wish to win the maiden, Take her riding in a sleigh. It will put her in a flutter And you’ll make an easy mash, For within a dashing cutter _ You can surely cut a dash Besides, in a sleigh, wherever you go You needn’t have fear of the beautiful’s “No.” “Papa, did mamma say yes to you right off when you asked her to marry you?” “Certainly she did.” “Why don’t she say yes now just as quick when you ask her to do things?” “Mamma’s hearing is not as good now, darling—thatfe all” “You are infinitely more adorable than any young lady whom 1 ever met,” said Mr. Jehosaphat Lunysides to Miss Wallaclock, recently; “and if you would only take my arm during our walk I should believe that heaven was my portion on earth.” “No,” she said, firmly but sweetly, “I cannot take your arm, but I wiil take ” “What?” he asked, nervously. “Some oysters,” replied the maiden. They are still disengaged. Oat of His Element. Now York Sun. First Bostonian—Did you hear how Mr. Sullivan is this morning? Second Bostonian—Hors de combat I understand. V First Bostonian —"What! Another runawayl He ought to leave horses alone. She Did the Interpreting. Altoona Tribune. There is a story of one of our country clergymen who was sent for suddenly to a cottage, where he found a man in bed. “Well, my friend,* said the pastor, “what induced you to send for me?” The patient, who was rather deaf, appealed to his wife: “What does he say?" “He says,” shouted the woman, “what the deuoe did you send for me for?” Her Grip on tho Egyptian Situation. Chicago News. “Hubby, I was reading last night that General Gordon had no arms.” “That means, my dear, that he never carried • pistol or a sword.” “Oh! Well, anyway, it was real mean of that Mr. Mahdi to pitch onto an unarmed man. wasn’t it, hubby?” ’ “But General Gordon had soldiers to guard him, vou know.” “Oh, did her _ Disrespectful to the Prince. Pali Mall Gazette. It was at the university. His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, with pardonable and intelligible pride in understanding something of the way to feather an oar or manipulate muds boating gear, was giving some advice to a comrade more familiar with the river than himself, whereat the latter, rather intolerant of the assumption of superiority not based on its q possession, burst out, “You teach your grand- H mother to ,” and then sunk into inglorious silence, quite appalled at the majesty of thename he had so easily invoked When He Weighed It. Chicago Tribune. Mrs. Newbride— “l am so sorry you could not come to my wedding, but you got tfce*“ piece of cake sent you, didn’t you? I made Mr** myself.” 'V Mr. Oldbuck—“O, yes; it arrived safely." “I am so glad. I sent you an awful big pieeek P ,] because I was sure you would like it. It musil have weighed nearly two pounds." “I3 that all? I thought it weighed about' twenty pounds." “Indeed! Why, when?" “After I had eaten it."

How Biff Enjoys Himself. Pittsburg Uhronicle-Telegrspli. “Did you see Mrs. Van Saltseller-SpltiTges Bifltf at Mrs. Old Cheese’s reception?” one genttanai&l ashed another. “Yes; co/ered with diamonds, wasn't she?” “Just loaded with them. It's a wonder old! Biff allows his wife to dress that way; he’s so* common in things himself, you know?” 1 “Allow her! Why she dresses for him! can’t wear diamonds himself, so he gives to her. Then people will say, ‘Who's that lady i encrusted with gems?’ ‘Why, don’t you know*] That’s Mrs. Van Saltseller-Splurges Biff, wife of 1 Spindleshank Biff, the great millionaire,' There’s' where old Biff comes in. See?” A Genuine Heroine* Philadelphia Call. Young Authoress —“My dear, I want a heroine * for my new novel. Can’t you give me an ideal" j Her Husband —“Certainly, love. You want ber-j to possess a combination of traits never before* dreamed of, I suppose?” “That’s it —that’s it But it must he a eombfr* nation calculated to make a man love her to die* traction.” “I see. Well, in the first place she should be' literary.” ) “Os course.” “The author of a book.” “Just the thine; but how shall I make her tirelv different from other literary ladies?” “Have her look over her husband’s wardrobe and sew on buttons before starting any new novels.” l His Send Off. Arkausaw Traveler. It is said that Mark Twain is becoming eeosi- 1 tive in his old age. It is possiblo that he may' eventually become a sentimentalist; and asaociation with Mr. Cable may give him an idea* of pathos. These two gentlemen—the smile - and the tear, the haw-haw and the sicrh may, in their lecturing tour, create an intellectual' reform. Twain, however, shoutd keep away* from Arkansaw City. The town has samething laid up against him. “We ain’t only got a crow to pick,” said an inhabitant of that town, “but we got a wolf to j skin. W’y, confound him, when he come along here, some time ago, writin’ up his blamed ‘Life on the Mississippi,’ a passel of us went down to the boat, tuck him off, tuck him, round town, flung drinks into him, an’ treated him like a lord. We all had lots for sale ou’ wo , knowed he was goin’ to give us a good send off in> his book.” “Did he?” asked somo one. “Did he? Wall listen at that Did old Nat Williams give hi,„ son-in law a rood send off when he said that h—l , was too good for him? Hah? Wall, that’s tho kid of a send off Twain give us?” The Viper and tlie File. Pack. A rapacious Viper, being sadly in need of Sustenance, was wandering aimlessly about one cool April afternoon, Seeking what ho might Devour, when he met an inviting-looking File,upon which, ho resolved to Feed. “Go it Vipo, old man.” said the File; “vouean have all the Juice you can get out of me, and Welcome; but I warn you to desist, as I am almost as Mortalitucious as our cousiu ('holer* Germ!” But tho Viper,persisting in his reckless repast. Swallowed the File entire, and, Having done ao, curled up his legs and died. And no wonder. He had eaten a File of the Congressional Record. Moral: Even Snakes cannot stand soma Things. ■" ■- 1 - ■— Irish Alliteration. Ban Francisco Chronicle. Two Irishmen were heard the other day <Hacussing the perpetual politics. The election ot‘ Cleveland has, 1 believe, been conceded for somo timo. and even tho Democrats have ceased explaining to one another how it was done. Those two voters were evidently reciting the details of the glorious victory to one another, and Anally they came to the Rum, Romanism and Rebellion of the inglorious Burchard. “Sure an’ its moighty qu&re that a little bit aw allitevashun like that should have bate a man runnin’ for President.” “An’ what is it you’re tellin* me? Allitera**; shun, is it? An’ what alliteraahun is it you, mane, at all* at all?” “On, this drinkin’ and Popery and frightin'* 11 !