Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 8 March 1885 — Page 9

Published bj Special Arrangement with Author.—Copyrighted 1335; All Bights Reserve!.] A. RAINYJUNE. A STORY IN THREE PARTS, BY “OUIDA." PART 11.

From the Thine* di San Z*none.Coombe Bvs&et. to the Ihu bess* deli' A<iiil Foiva, Palazzo, Fulva, Milano: | “I am still in tny box of wet moss. I have been in it two weeks, four days and eleven hours, by the calendar and tho clocks. I have read all my novels. I Havo spelled through tny Figaro, j from the title to the printers’ address, every morning. I have smoked twenty cigarettes ev-° ery twenty minutes, and I have yawned as many times. This is paradise, I know it; I tell myself so; but still I can not help it —I yawn. There is a pale, watery sun, which shines fitfully. There is a quantity of soaked hay which they are going to dry by machinery. There is a great variety of muddy lane® in which to ride. There is a postoffice seven miles off, and a telegraph station fifteen miles further off. The ensemble is not animated. When you go out you see very sleek cattle, very white sheep, very fat children. You may meet at intervals laboring people very round-shoul-dered and very sulky. You also meet, if you are in Inch’s way, with a traction engine; and wherever you look you perceive a church steeple, i It is all very harmless, except the traction en gme; but it is not animated or enlivening. You will not wonder that I soon came to the end of my French novels. The French novels have enabled me to discover that my angel is very easily ruffled. In fact, she is that touchy thing —a saint. I had no idea that she was a saint when I saw her drinking her cup of tea in that garden on the Thames. True, she had her lovely little serene, holy, noli me tangere air, but I thought that would pass; it does not pass. And when I wanted her to laugh with me at ‘Autour du Marriage,’ she blushed up to the eyes and was offended. What am Ito do? I am no saint. I cannot pretend to be one. I am not worse than other men, but I like to amuse myself. I cannot go through life singing a miserere. lam afraid we shall quarrel. You think that very wholesome. But there are quarrels and quarrel a. Some clear the air like thunderstorms. Ours are little irritating differences which end in her bursting into tears, and in myself looking ridiculous and feeling a brute. She has cried quite a number of times in the last fortnight. I dare say if she went into a rage, as you justly say Nicoletta would do, and you might have added you have done, it would rouse me, and 1 should be ready to strike her, and should end in covering her with kisses. But she only turns her eyes on me like a dying fawn, bursts into tears, and goes out of the room. Then she comes in again—to dinner, perhaps, or to that odd ceremony, 5 o’clock tea —with her little sad, stiff, reproachful air as of a martyr, answers meekly, and makes me again feel a brute. The English sulk a long time, I think. We are at daggers drawn one moment, but then we kiss and forget the next. We are more passionate, but we are more amiable. I want to get away, to go to Paris, Homburg, Trouville, anywhere; but I dare not propose it. 1 only drop adroit hints. If I should die of ennui, and be buried under the wet moss forever, weep for me.”

From the Princess di San Zenone. Coombe Bysset, to Lady Gwendolen Chieester, Sfc. Petersburg: •‘Coombe is quite too lovely now. It does rain Sometimes, certainly, but between the showers it is so delicious. I asked Piero to come out and hear the nightingale; there really is one in the home wood, and he laughed at the idea. He said, ‘We have hundreds of nightingales shouting all day and all night at Ijanciano. We don’t think about them; we eat them in pasta; they are very good.’ Fancy eating nightingale! Yon mi glit as well eat Romeo and Juliet. Piero has got a number of French books from London, and he lies about on the couches and reads them. He wants me to listen to naughty bits of fun out of them; but I will not, and then he calls me a prude, and gets angry. 1 don't see why he shouldn't laugh as much as he likes himself, without telling me why he laughed. I dislike that sort of thing. I am horribly afraid I shall care for nothing but him all my life, while he —he yawned yesterday. Papa said to me, before we were married, ‘My dear little girl, sac Zenone put on such a lot of i steam at first, he’ll be obliged to ease his pace after a bit. Don't be vexed if you find the thing cooling.’ Now, papa speaks so oddly; al ways that sort of floundering, bald metaphor, you remember it; but I knew what he meant Nobody could go on being such a lover as Piero was. Ah, dear, it is in the past already! Np, I don't quite mean that. He is Romeo still, very often, and ho sings me the divinest love songs, lying at my feet on cushions in the moonlight. But it is not quite the same thing as it was at first He found fault with one of ray gowns this morning, and said I was fagotee. •Fagotee!’ lam terribly frightened lest Coombe has bored him too much. I would com© hero. I wanted to be utterly out of the world, and so did he: and lam sure there isn't a lover’s nest anywhere comparable to Coombe in midsummer. You remember the rose garden, and the lime avenues, and the chapel ruins by the little lake? When Aunt Carrie offered it to us for this June I was so delighted, but now I am half afraid the choice of it was a mistake, and that he does not know what to do with himself. Ho is depayso. I cried a little yesterday; it was too silly," but* I couldn’t help it. He laughed at me, but he got a little angry. ‘Enfln que veux tu?' he said impatiently; ‘je suis a toi, bien a toi, beauooup trop a toil’ He seemed to me to regret being mine. I told him so; be was more angry. It was, I suppose, what you would call a scene. In five minutes he was penitent, and caressed me as only he can do; and the sun came out, and we went in the woods and heard the nightingale; but the remem* brance ot it alarms me. If he can say as much as this iu a month, what will he not say in a year? Ido not think lam silly. I fed two London seasons, and all those country houses show one the world. I kuow people when they aro married are always glad to get away from one another—they are always flirting with other people. But I should be miserable if I thought it would ever be like that with Piero and me. I worship his vory shadow, and he doea—or he did —worship tnine. Why should that change? Why should it not go on for ever, as it does in poems? If it can’t, why doesn’t one die?’’ Prom the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg, to the Princess di Sian Zeuone. Coombe Bysset: “What a goose you are, you dearest Gladys! You were always like that To all you have said I can only reply comm. When girls are romantic, and you always were, though it wax quite gone out ages before our time, they always expect husbands to remain lovers. Now, my net. you might just as well expect hay to remain

grass. Papa was quite right When there is such a lot of steam on it must go off by degrees. I am afra'.d, too, you have begun with the passion, and the rapture, and the mental adoration, and .all the rest of it which is quite, quite gone out. People don't feel in that sort of way nowadays. Nobody cares much; a sort of goodhumored* liking is the utmost one sees. But you were always such a goose! And now you must marry an Italian, and expect it to all be balconies and guitars and moonlight forever and ever. I thir.k it quito natural he should want to get to Paris. You should never have taken him to Coombe. I do remember the rose gardens, and the litne avenues and the ruins; and I rememberr being sent down there when I had too strong a flirtation with Philip Rous, who was in F. 0., and had nothing a year—you were a baby then—and I remember that I was bored to the very brink of suicide; that 1 have detested the smell of a litne tree ever since. I can sympathize with the Prince, if he longs to get away. There can’t be anything for him to do all day long, except smoke. The photo of him is wonderfully handsome; but caa you live all your life, nay dear, on 1 a profile?” From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysaet to, , the Lady Gwendolen, Chrcester, St. Petersburg: “Because almost all Englishmen have snubnoses, Englishwomen always think there is something immoral and delusive about a good profile. At all events, you will admit that the latter is the more agreeable object of contemplation. It still rains, rains dreadfully. The meadows are soaked, and they can’t get the hay in, and we can't get out of the house. Piero does smoke, and he does yawn. He has been looking m the library for a French novel, but tliere is nothing except Mrs. Cravens goody-goody books, and a boy’s tale by Jules Verne. lam afraid you and mamma are right. Coombe, in a wet June, is not the place for a Roman who knows his Paris by heart, and doesn’t like the country anywhere. We seem to do nothing but eat. I put on an ulster, and high boots, and I don’t mind the rain a bit; but he screams when he sees me in an ulster. ‘You have no more figure in that thing than if you were a sausage,’ he says to me, and certainly ulsters are very ugly. But 1 had a delicious fortnight with the duchess in a driving tour at Westmeath. We ouly took our ulsters with us, ami it poured all the time, and we stayed in bed in the little inns while our things dried, and it was immense fun; the duke drove us. But Piero would not like that sort of thine. He is like a cat about rain. He likes to shut the house up early, and have the gas lit, and forget that it is all slop and mist outside. He declares that we have made a mistake in the calendar, and that it is November, not June. I change my gowns three times a day, just as if there were a large house party, but I feel I look awfully monotonous to him. lam afraid I never wasamusing. I aiwqys envy those women who are all chic and ‘go;’ who can make men laugh so at rubbish. They seem to carry about with them a sort of exhilarating ether. I don’t think they are the best sort of women, but they doso amuse the men. I would give twenty years of my life if I could amuse Piero. He adores me, but that is another thing. That does not prevent him shaking the barometer and yawning. He seems happiest when ho is talking Italian with his servant, Toniello. Toniello is alleged to play billiards with him sometimes. He is a very gay, merry, saucy, beautiful-eyed Roman. He has made all the maids in the house, and all the farmers’ daughters round Combe, in love with him, and I told you how he had scandalized one of the best tenants, Mr. John Best. The Bedford rustics all vow vengeance against him, but he twangs his mandoline and sings away at the top of his voice, and doesn’t care a straw that the butler loathes him, the house steward abhors him, the grooms would tiersewhip him if they dare, and the young farmers audibly threaten to. duck him in the pond. Toniello is very fond of his master, but he does not extend his allegiance to me. Do you remember Mrs. Stevens, Aunt Caroline’s model housekeeper? You should see her face when she chances to hear Piero talking and laughing with Toniello. I think she believes that the end of the world is come. Piero calls Toniello ‘figlioio mio’ and ‘earo mio,’ just as if they were cousins or brothers. It appears this is the Italian way. They are very proud in their own fashion, but it isnt our fashion. However, I am glad the man is there when I hear the dick of the biliard balls, and tho splash of the raindrops on the window panes. We have been here just three weeks. ‘Dio, it seems three years,’ Piero said when I reminded him of it this morning. For me, 1 don’t know whether it is like a single day's dream or a whole eternity. You know what I mean. But 1 wish—l wish—it seemed either the day’s dream or the eternity of paradise to Him! I daresay it is all niv fault in coining to these quiet, bay-wiudowed* Queen Anne rooms, and the old-fashioned servants, and the dbeamy lookout over tbe soaking hay fields. But the sun does come outsometimes, and then the wet roses smell so sweet, and the wet lime blossoms glisten in tho light, and the larks sing overhead, and the woods are so geen and so fresh. Still, I don’t think he likes it even then; it is all too moist, too windy, too dim for him. When I put a rose in his button hole this morning, it shook the drops over him, and he said: ‘Mais quel pays!—meme une fleur e'est une douche and ean froide!’ Last month, if I had put a dandelion in his coat, he would have sworn it had the odor of the magnolia and the beauty of the orchid. It is just twenty-two days ago since we came here, and the finst four or five days he never eared whether it rained or not; he only cared to lie at my feet, really, literally. We were all in all to each other, just like Cupid and Psyche. And now—he will play billiards with Toniello to pass the time, and he is longing for his petite theatres. Is it my fault? I torment myself with a thousand self accusations. Is it possible I can have been tiresome, dull, overexacting? Is it possible he can be disappointed in me?” From the Lady Gwendolen Chinch ester, St. Petersburg, to the Princess li San Zenone. Coombe liysset: “No, it isn’t your fault, you dear little donkey; it is only the natural sequence of things. Men are always like that when the woman loves them; when she doesn’t, they behave much better. | My dear, this is just what is so annoying about I love; the man's is always going slower aud slow- | er towards a dead stop, as the woman's is 'coaling’ and getting steam up. I borrow papas admirably accurate metaphor; nothing can be truer. It is a great pity, but I suppose the fault is Nature’s. Entre nous, 1 dont think Nature ever contemplated marriage any more than she did crinolettos, pearl powder or theeleetric light. There is no doubt that Nature intended to adjust tho thing on the butterfly and buttercup system; on tho je neate, tu t’en vas principle. And nothing would be easier or nicer, only there are children and poverty. So the butterfly has to be pinned down by tli© buttercup. That is why the Com munists and Anarchists always abolish property aud marriage together. The one is evolved out of the other, just as the dear scientists say the horse was evolved out of a bird, which I never can seo makes the matter any easier of comprehension; but still—what was I saying? Oh, I meant to say this: You are only lamenting, as a special defalcation and disloyalty in San Zenone, what is merely his unconscious, and Involuntary, and perfectly natural alteration from a lover into a husband. Tho butterfly is beginning to feel the pin which has been run through him to stick him down. It is not your fault, my sweet little girl, it is the fault, if at all, of the world, which baa decreed that the butterfly, to flirt legitimately with tho buttercup, must suffer the corking pin. Now, take my advice: the pin is in; don't worry if ho writhe eu it a little bit; it is only what the beloved scientists again call automatic action. And do try and beat into your little head the fact that a man may love you very dearly, and yet yawn a little for

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, MARCH 8, 1885.

the petits theatres in the silent recesses of his manly breast. Os couree, I know this sort of rough awakening from delightful dreams is harder for you than it is for most, because you began at such tremendous altitudes. You hnd your Ruy Bias and Petraroa, and the mandoline and tho moonlight, and tho love-philters all mixed up in an intoxicating draught. You have naturally a great deal more disillusion to go through than if you had married a country squire, or a Scotch laird, who would never have suggested any romantic delights. One cannot go near heaven without coming down with a crash, like the poor men in the balloons. You have been up in your balloon, and you ore now coming down. Ah, my dear, everything depends on how you come down! You will think me a monster for saying so, but it will rest so much in your own hands. You won’t believe it, but it will. If you come down with tact and good-lumor, it will all be right afterwards, but if you show temper, as men say of their horses, why then the balloon will lie prone, a torn, empty, useless bag that will never again get off the ground. To speak plainly, dear, if you will receive with resignation and sweetness the unpleasant discovery that San Zenone is mortal, you-wont be unhappy, and you will soon get used to it; but if you perpetually fret about it you won’t alter him, and you will both be miserable; or, if not miserable, you will do something worse: you will each find your amusement in somebody else. 1 know you so well, my poor, pretty Gladys; you want such an immense quantity of sympathy and affection; but you won't get it, my dear child. I quite understand that the Prince looks like a picture, and he has made life an errotic poem for you for a month, and the inevitable reaction which follows seems dull as ditch-water; you would even say as cruel as the grave. “But it is nothing new. Do try and get that well into your mind. Try, too, aud be as lighthearted as you can. Men hate an un am usable woman. Blake believe to laugh at the petits theatres, if yon can’t real ly do it; if you don’t, dear, he will go to somebody else who will Why do these demi-monde women get such preference over us ? Only because they don't bore their men. A man would sooner we flung a champagne glass at his head than cried for five minutes. We can’t fling champagne glasses; the prejudices of our education are against it. It is an immense loss to us; wo must make up for it as much as we can by being as agreeable as we know how to be. We shall always be a dozen lengths behind those others. By the way, you said in one of your earliest notes that you wondered why our mother ever married. I am not sufficiently au eourant with pre historic times to be able to tell you why, but I can see what she has done since she did marry. She has always effaced herself in the very wisest and most prudent manner. She has never begrudged papa his Norway fishing or his August yachting, though she knew be conld ill afford them. She has never bored him with herself or about us. She has constantly urged him to go away and enjoy himself, and when he is down with her in the country she always takes care that all tho women he admires, and all the men who best amusebim shall be invited in relays, to prevent his being dull or feeling teased for a moment. lam quite sure she has never cared the least about her own wishes, but has only studied his. This is what I call being a clever woman and a good woman. But I fear such women are as rare as blue roses. Try and bo like her, my dear. She was quite as young as you are now when she married. But, unfortunately, in truth, you are a terrible little egotist. You want shut up this poor young man all alone with you in a kind of attitude of perpetual adoration —of yourself. That is what women call affection; you are not alone in your ideas. Some men submit to this sort of demand, and go about forever held tight in a leash like unslipped pointers. The majority—well, tho majority bolt. And lam sure I should if I were one of them. Ido not think you could complain if your beautiful Romeo did. I can see you so exactly with your pretty little grave face, and your eyes that have such a fatal aptitude for tears, and your solemn little views about matrimony and its responsibilities, making yourself quite odious to this mirthful Apollo of yours, and innocently believing all the while that you are pleasing heaven and saving your own dignity by being so remarkably unpleasant! Are you very angry with me? lam afraid so. Myself, I would much sooner have an unfaithful man jlian a dull one; tbe one may be bored by you. but the other bores you, which is immeasurably worse. ”

From the Princes di San Zenone, Coombo Bysset, to the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg. “Dear Gwen—How can you possibly tell what mamma did when she was young? I daresay she fretted dreadfully. Now, of course she has got used to it—like all other miserable women. If people marry only to long to be with other people, what is the U3e of being married at all ? I said to Piero, and he answered very insolently; ‘II n’y a point! —Sion le savait’ He sent for some more dreadful French books—Gyp’s and Richepins and Gui de Maupassant’s—and he lies about reading them all day long, when he isn't asleep; he is very often asleep in the daytime. He apologizes when ho is found out, but he yawns as he does sa You say I should amuse him, but I can’t amuse him. He doesn't care for any English news, aud he is beginning to get irritable because I cannot talk to bim in Italian, and he declares my French detestable, and there is always something dreadful happening. There has been such a terrible scene in the village. Four of the Coombo Bysset men—two blacksmiths, a carpenter and a laborer—have ducked Toniello in the villago* pond on account of his attention to their womankind; and Tonfello, when lie stag gered out of the weeds and the slime, drew his knife on them aud stabbed two very badly. Os course, he was taken up by the constables, and the men he hurt moved to tho county hospital. The magistrates are furious and scandalized; and Piero!—Piero has nobody to play billiards with him. When the magistrates intewogated him about Toniello, as, of course, they were obliged to do, he got into a dreadful passion because one of them said that it was just like a cowardly Italian to carry a knife aud make use of it. Piero absolutely hissed at the solemn old gentleman who mumbled this. ‘And your people,’ he cried, ‘are they so very courageous? Is it better to beat a man into a jelly, or kick a woman with nailed boots, as your English mob does? Where is there anything cowardly? He was one against four. In my country there is not a night that goes without a ritsa of that sort, but nobody takes any notice. The jealous persons are left to tight it out as best they may; after all, it is the woman’s fault.’ And then he said some tilings that really I can not repeat, and it was a mercy that, as he spoke in the most rapid and furious French, the old gentleman did not, I think, understand a syllable. But they saw he was in a passion, aud that scandalized them, beeauso, you know, English people always think that you should keep your bad temper for your own people at home. Meanwhile, of course, Toniello is in prison, and I am afraid they won’t let us lake him out on bail, because he lias hurt one of tho blacksmiths dreadfully. Aunt Carry’s solicitors are doing what they can for him, to please me; but I can see they consider it all peines perdues for a rogue who ought to be hanged. ‘And to think,’ cries Toniello, 'that in my own country I should have all the populo with me; the very carabineers themselves would have been with me! Accident© a tutte quei grulli, which means, may apoplexy seize these fools. They were only the women's husbands,’ he adds with scorn; ‘they are well worth making a fuss about, certainly!’ Then Piero consoles him, and gives him cigarettes, and is obliged to leave him sobbingand tearing his hair, and lying face downward on his bed of sacking. I thought Piero would not leave the poor fellow alone in prison, and so I supposed ho would give up all idea of going from here, and so I began to say to myself ‘a quelque chose raalheur est bon.' But to day at luncheon Piero said ‘Sai carina! It was bad enough with Toniello, but without him, I tell you fraukly I cannot stand any more of it. With Toniello onecould laugh and forget a little. But now—aninm mia, if you do not wish me to kill somebody and be lodged beside Toniello by your worthy lawgivers, you must really let me so to Trouville.’ ‘Alone!’ I said; and I believe it is really what he did mean, only the horror in my voice frightened him from confessing it He sighed and got up *1 suppose I shall never be alone any more,' he said, impatiently. ‘lf only men knew what they do when they marry—on ne nous prendmit jamais. No—no. Os course I meaut that you must consent to come away with me somewhere out of this intolerable place, which is made up of fog and green leaves. Let us go to Paris to begin with; there is not a soul there, and the theaters are ©n relaehe. bnt it is always delightful, and then in a week r go we will go down to Trouville. AUjtiie world is ths.’. I couldn't an-

swer him for crying. Perhaps that was best, for lam sure I should have said something wicked, which might havo divided us forever. And then what would people have thought?” To Be Concluded Next Sunday. - ——■ Down on Wriggle Crick. Best Time to Kill a Hoy's when He's Fat. — Old Saw. Mostly, folks is law-abdin’. Down on Wriggle Crick, — Seeing they's no 'Squire residin’ In our bailywick; No grand juries, ner suppeenies, Ner no vested rights to pick Out yer man, jerk up and jail if He’s outragin’ Wriggle Crick! • Wriggle Crick haint got no lawin', Ner no suits to beat; Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin’ Like a county-seat; Ner no waitin' round fer verdicks, Ner non-gittin’ witness-fees; Ner no thiefs 'at gits “new hearin's,” By some lawyer slick as grease! Wriggle Cricks’s leadin' spirit Is old .Tohnts Culwell, — Keeps postoffice, aud l ight near it Owns what's called ‘The Grand Hotel’— (Warehouse now) —buys wheat and slaps it; Gits out ties and trades in stock, And knows all the high-toned drummers ’Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk,” Last year come, 1 ? along a feller— Sharper ’an a lance. — Stovepipe hat, and silk umbreller, And a" all-wool pants,— Tinkerin' of clocks and watches; Says a trial’s all he wants— Ami rents out the tavern-office Nexttio uncle Joints. Well.—He tacked tip his k'dentials, And got down to biz.— Captured Johnt* by cuttin’ stencils Fer them old wheat-sacks o’ his.— Fixed his clock, in the postofice— Painted fer him, cleau and slick, ’Croat his safe in gold-leaf letters, “J. CuiweU’s: Wriggle Criek.” Any kind o* job you kerred to Rest him with and bring • He'd fix fer you—jest appeared to Turn his hatad to anything!— Rings, cr car bobs, er umbrellas— Glue a cheer, er chany doll,*— W’y, of all the boatin’ fellers" He jest beat ’em all! Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there,— One mistake be learnt, That was, sloepin’ in his shop there. /■ And ono night it burnt! Come in one o’ jest a-sweepin’ All tho whole town high and dry, And that feller, when they waked him, Suffocatin' mighty nigh! Joluats he drug him from the buildin’ Helpless—'peared to be, — And the women aud the childr’n Drench in’ him with sympathy! But I noticed Johnts belt on bim With a’ extry lovin’ grip, And the men-folks gethered round him In most warmest pardenship! f i That G the whole mess, grease and dopin’! Johnts’s safe was saved, — But the lock was found sprung open, And tbe inside caved. Was no trial —ner no jury— Ner no jedge ner court-house-click.— Circumstances alters cases Down on Wriggle Crick! —James Whitcomb Riley. ,„ s .. Hopes. J My mind flies.- and the heavy weight of care The earth inflicts iq>on it, clings an ear The rough mold of its burden haunted lair, This sorrow-seared and bowlder-hearted sphere. ’Tis not through hatred of the envious crowd, Nor all the flings of contumelious spleen That they heap on the better faculty; Nor yet the barreu-browed Aud clamorous contradiction of the mean, That on tbe wings of discontent I fly. Oh for some distant realm of happiuess, Floating and far away, that eye hath not Lit on its structures, nor might deep thought guess, Its rapt tranquillity, or beauteous plot. Oh for a prospect filled with halcyon rest, Not dinned by harsh and quarreling discontents, Where sunken cheeks enfeeble not the air, Nor mad scheme-tainted breast Dissolves her sweet concordant element*, When filled with jealous venom and despair. We come! We coine! Oh! haven of repose, Not for tire brief excursion of an hour, But with theVush of time, whoso shadows close Around our life, like evening ’around a tower When the low, westering sun through cloudy rents Darts forth his airy gold upon one side, While on 1 he other, gloom already plays And night’s habiliments Unrumpled float and slowly trail their wide And somber phantasy o'er earth's dark ways. In Memory of Harriet Atwood Newell, FIRST FEMALE MISSIONARY TO INDIA. Beautiful service, in lands untilled Sowing the golden grain, Was like the ointment Mary spilled Which others thought in vain. Behold! the fragrance of such a deed Quickly pervaded the air; Bountiful sowing of costly seed Will precious fruitage bear. Beautiful lives have laid their all Before their Master’s feet— Could He, who heeds the sparrow's fall, Reject a gift so swoet? Beautiful soul! eont3nt to sow And toil, that others might reap. Beautiful deeds immortal glow Your memory to keep. —Harriet Newell Lodge. — ■ w ■ ■— Repining*. Xdoe not lye awake o' nights, My brainy I doe not frett, And wonder just wnom hec will put Into liys Cabinet. I doe not even wonder what Will be his nolicee, But oh and ah. ye prvec of coal It ys that gravelleth me. I doe not know, I doe net care, What valorous Englishman Will smash ye Mabdi and subdue Ye turbulent Soudan. Idoe not cure if all ye East In bloodie war ys blent.: I wysh I knew where I might fynd A little ower rent. • I care not if Reform shall wince, I reek not if yt lose; I wonder where ITI fynd ye titme To pay my water dues. I worry'uo't. that all ye States To wrack and ruin got; I only wysh I could stand oft Ye tradesman what I owe. —Robert J, Bardette. Repayment. If ono should live so that no hint of blame Dimmed the clear glory of his restful day, Should break the Itan icrs holding souls at bay, la upward paths that they had made their aim, Unmindful of himself, because this came, Like some great reef wet with storm’s wrathful spray, Withm tbe roud that was their chosen way, What good would acme to compensate for fame? Life has small wealth of joy. aud smaller gain Os peaceful hours and sunlit summer lands. And what we give takes from our store of these: Yet he who blunts the bitter shafts of pain, And adds his strength to weak and weary hands, Wins from the lees to smooth and fragrant seas. •wTlum, 8. Collier, in Ihafutreui,

FOB THE LITTLE FOLKS. How the Dimples Came. “now oatnc," I asked a little maid. “Those dimples in your cheek? - ’ And bent my head low down to hear The little maiden spoak. “ 'Ose dimples in ray cheek, ” she said “Would ou really like to know? They surely wasn’t always there, An’ yet they didn't grow. “ ’Twas when a little girl I sat Beneath a g'eat big twee. A little bird tame down an’ sang A j>retty song to me. “An’ just before he flew away; He tissed me ‘one, two, fee,* An’ every time he tissed so hard He left a hole in me. "But ’en I didn’t tare, ’ou know, It didn't hurt a mite; I wish the bird would turn adin , EtJfc An’ sing to me to-night.” —Janies M. Adams, Grandmamma’s Fortune. New York Graphic. “One I love, two Hove, Three I love, I say.” The children, youths and maidens gathered close about the roaring lire, for the snow had grown very deep without, and the frivolous old wind shrieked with delight as it lifted the soft white folds and piled them in drifts. “Law! Miss Jessie,” ejaculated little black Joe, as he knelt cm the rug shelling popcorn, %ope 1 ra’die if you ain't bu'ning the corn." The young girl laughed merrily at her small servant, while she answered: “Well, Joe, you are safe, fori am burning it shockingly. Suppose you take the popper while I have ray fortune told; it was for that I was getting these seeds out when the fire took advantage of my corn.” “Yes’m,” said Joe, apropos of nothing in particular, as he obeyed and tried to watch his task with one eye and the fortune with the other. Various games were in progress in the room, for nuts, apples, cakes, etc., were making young hearts glad. But Miss Bessie had an absorbed air, as with qnaint gravity she turned to her handsome cousin to name her apple seeds, and began counting, “One I love, two I love, three I love, I say—” Grandmamma, in her ehknuey corner, had been watching the games, and now caught the “One I love,” etc. Dropping her knitting she rested her head against the tall back of her cozy arm-chair and listened, while the words took a new meaning as they stepped across the threshold of her brain. She made a sweet picture in the firelight, which albeit was sad too, she seemed so near the shadowy borderland of another world. There was a sublime peace on the dear, wrinkled face, and the soft hair was whitened with the “dust of life” gathered through many heartbreaking sorrows and wistful struggles. Grandmamma’s thoughts were swiftly traversing the long lapse of shears, and were down again at the springtime of life, reading once more from the great book of experience. And she wondered who wrote the wise little legend that pretty Bessie was repeating. “Some old dame like myself,” she mused, and smiled when she saw how meaningless the words were to young folks. “Ah, yes, one I love.” Her thoughts lingered tenderly about the tiny, curly-haired laddie who trudged behind her, and carried her books to school. At the first dawn of knowledge we begin conning the sad old lesson set for Eve to learn in Paradise, and early refuse to believe that it takes years of experience and sorrow to reveal the true, deep meaning to us. She turned the sunny leaf of memory and “Two I love’’ she murmured as the picture rose before her of the frank, manly young fellow, with his laughterloving blue eyes. Half sadly, half amused, she remembered how she had outgrown him in her precocious way, and had come to look down upon him as “too young.” “Three I love, I say,” grandmamma repeated, forced to acknowledge ♦that this was a premeditated flirtation. She saw a courteous man bending to do her homage in a spirit of idle jest,* she remembered how her bosom swelled with injured pride when she discovered that in his estimation she was only a child, a bagatelle, a toy. Hor childish faith shivered in the first cold blast of the realty, “all is not gold that glitters; ” and she determined to bo revenged. A inetty smile lurked about the coiners of her mouth at the thought of how earnest her lover bad grown and he remained faithful for years. Alt grandmamma sighed at her youthful frivolity—she had. learned the secret of her power. On she turned the record of her years, and tears were in the sweet voice that softly whispered. “Four I love with all my heart.” She pondered long over this picture. Here the young girl, who had suddenly forgotten her bitter worldly knowledge, stood among the glowing, blushing roses, breathing the delicious sunshine, looking a perfect fairy of happiness, and dreamily building “castles in air,” when the fatal news of her lover’s death crushed the joy from her heart. Aye, and years passed* ere she recovered. “Five I cast away.” Yes. Still the sobbing qf her bereaved heart would not be stilled. She could not listen to another. “Six, he loves.” and yet she could not think on such things without pain. At last the loving soul reached out for sympathy and comfort. “Seven, she loves.” He seemed brave, true arid good—a gallant lover, ibrsooth. Weeks, months sped on, and then >©ne evening he came to say “good-bye.” The morrow was his wedding day. “Would not his dear-friend wish him God speed?” The proud, sensitive nteath quivered a moment, then to all outward seining it was over; she was his friend. She loved on as usual, but anon in the inner life it took many years to fill up the grave of that experience to tho level of her customary serenity. In the full bloom of womanhood, with that richuess of knowledge and experience with which she vainly hoped to build a bulwark of safety aoout her heart, camo “Eight, they both love.” She fought bravely against conviction. “Nine, he comes,” “Certainly; why should he not?” she said. “Ten, he tarries.” Cynical reflections of worldly wisdom kept her cold and unresponsive. “Eleven, he courts.” Grandmamma’s beautiful eyes grew brighter even now at the thought of the new and holy happiness that had come to her. Truly this was love, that of a matured heart and ripened intellect. The glory of it slwme even now upon her, though it was long since “Twelve, he married,” and grandpapa had gono before aud waited for her on the shore of •the blessed where “God is love.” Stretching Tilings. Christian Neighbor. “I’m ’most dead! It is as hot as fire, and I’ve been more than a dozen miles after that colt!” Andrew threw himself at full length on the lounge, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Where did you got” inquired bis father. “I went over to Briggs’s corner and back by the bridge.” “That is a little less than a mile and a half. Is it so very warm. Andy? It seems quite cool here.” "No, not so dreadful, I suppose, if I’d take it moderate; but I ran like lightning, and got heated up.” ‘ You started about 5 o’clock, my son, and now it lacks a quarter of six,” said his father, consulting his watch. “Yes. sir; just three-quarters of an hour,” answered Andrew, innocently. “Does it take lightning forty-five minutes to go a mile and a half?” “I didn’t mean exactly that, father, but I ran all the way, because 1 expected the whole town would be hero to-night to see iny new velocipede.'* explained Andrew, reluctantly. “Whom did you expect, Andy? I wasn't aware that such a crowd was to bo here. What will you do with them all?" “Jim, Eddy, and Tim told me they’d be round after school; and I wouldn't wonder if Ike came, too: that’s all.” “The population of the town is 5,000, and you expect three persons. Well, as you are very sick, lam glad no more aro coming. You couldn’t play with them at all. ” “Sick!” cried Andrew, springing to his feet, “who says I’m sick?” “Why, Andrew, you said you were almost dead. Doesn’t that mean very sick?* “You are so particular, father, about my talking. I don't mean exactly what I say. of course. I wasn’t nearly dead, to bo sure; but I did some tall running, you bet. There were more than fifty dogs after me, and I don’t go much on doga” “Quite a band of them! Where did they all come from?” “There was Mr. Wheelers sheep dog, and Rush’s store dog and two or three more; and they made for me, and so I ran as fast as I could.” “Five, at the most, aro not fifty, Andrew.” “There looked to be fifty, anyway,” answered

Andrew, somewhat impatiently. “Carter’s teaacre lot was full of dogs just making for me; and I guess you’d have thought there were fifty if it bad been you.” “Ten acres of dog’s would be a great many thousands. Have you any idea bow many?” Andrew did not like to calculate, for it occurred to him what a small space ten or fifteen thousand sheep would occupy when camping, and ten acres of dogs would be past calculation. “But,” his father continued, “I know of no better way to break you of the foolish habit of exaggeration than to tell the children of the trouble you had in going after the colt You ran like lightning, encountered ten acres of dogs—which would be hundreds of thousands—traveled more than a dozen miles to cot one and a half miles in a straight line, expected to find fiv# thousand people here to examine your new ve locipede, and when you reached home you were nearly dead?” “Please, don’t father; the boys and girls will all laugh themselves to death: and T won’t exaggerate again if I live to be as old as Methusc lab!” “Laugh themselves to death at a simple storj like this? I hope not. hut rather hope it will set them to watching their own manner of tellinj stories, so as to be sure they do not greatly over state things. Habit, my son, grows with year*, and becomes in time so deeply rooted that it will be impossible for you, when you become a man, to relate plain, unvarnished facts unless you check the foolish habit in which you indulge every day of stretching simple incidents into the most marvelous tales.” Ich Dien. St. Louis Presbyterian. Do you know why the eldest son of the Queen of Eng.and wears this motto, and has for hia crest three white ostrich feathers? It is because he is the Prince of Wales, for every Prince o! Wales since the 27th day of August, 134 b, has borne this crest and motto. The day previous, Edward, the fair Black Prince —fair of face, but in armor of raven hue—led the victorious army of England against the doomed hosts of the French King and his allies. When morning dawned there lay on the stained battle field eleven princes. 1,200 noble knights, and 30,000 noblemen of less degree. Between two of the knights, and with his horse's bridle lashed to the bridles of their steeds, lay an aged man with a crest of three white ostrich plumes and the motto, “Ich dien. w It was the blind King of Bohemia, who, when ho heard that hus son was a sacrifice to his country, could not be restrained from dashing into the fight. The Black Prince, who* was the Priaoe of Wales, admired the pure * crest and the right kingly motto, “I serve,” and honored the valor of the blind old monarch. He adopted Hie motto and crest, and they have been a portion of the birthright of every succeeding Prince of Wales. Be What Yon Seem To Be. From tec German. A nobleman gave a grand supper to a fen guests. While they sat at tho table, two masks personages came into the room. They were n< . larger than children five or six years of age, an ‘ represented a gentleman and lady ot high rank The gentleman wore a scarlet coat with gole buttons. His curly wig was powdered snow white, and in his hand ho held a fine hat. The lady was dressed in yellow silk, with silver spangles, and had a neat little hat witb plumes on hfcr head, aud a fan in her hand. Both <mnoed elegantly, and often made agile springs. Everybody said, “The skill of these children is wonderful.” An old officer who sat at tho table took an apple and threw it between the gay dancers. Suddenly tho little lard and lady rushed for the apple, quarreled as if they were mad. tore ofi their masks and head-pear, and — instead of the skillful children appeared a pair of filthy apes. All at the table laughed loudly, but the old. officer said, with much earnestness, “Apes and fools may drees as much as they please; it soon becomes known who they are. ” Speak Trnly. Little three-year-old Austin was not very well, and one morning his mother endeavored to persuade him to eat some breakfast. ‘lf Austin eats his moat and potato he will grow to boa big boy,” she said. “A big boy?" he asked. And when his mother answered “yes.” ho cheerfully ate his breakfast and hurried up stairs. His auntie followed him, and saw him standing in front of the mirror with a moat paiuful look on his face as he said. “1 didn't grow a big boy.’ 1 We should be careful what we say to the little ones, for they take our words as strictly true. The Rose. HK. She t-ossed too a rose, With a shy. rapid motion, Though noboddy knows She tossed me a rose, I’m sure the gift shows She accepts my devotion! She tossed me a rose With a shy, rapid motion. SUK. 1 tossed Lira a rose— His quick look i parried, Ah! little he knows I tossed him a rose Our flirtation to close, * Before I am married. I tossed him a rose— His quick look I parried. —Somerville Journal. Women In the Census. Boston Advertiser. The seventh lecture in the Lowell Institute course, by President Francis A. Walker, of the Institute of Technology, was given last evening. His subject was the census statistics concerning women. He said that no data are obtainable by which may be shown the relative numbers of the two sexes born: But tho census returns may be relied upon to indicate the fact approximately, as an enumeration is made of the sex of children less than one year of age. by which it appears that the ratio is 103.fi males to 100 females. The ratio for those between one and five years of age is 103.4 to 100. In the forty-seven Status a4 Territories of the country, including the District of Columbia, the enumeration of population under five years of age, made in 282 entries, gives only 47 entries in which there is a female preponderance, and in these cases it is so slight that it does not affect the general proposition. These exeep tional instances are in the Territories and the District of Columbia. All the great States have a slight excess of males. But a comparison ot the population of the iiitermediate ages up to that of 69 years shows a preponderance* of jfemalos of 105 sto 100 males. The lecturer accounted for this by showing that the death rate among males of the active period of life is much greater, owing to their greater exposure to hardship and to accident in the vocations which they follow and the use of alcoholic drink. He gave figures to show the disparity of sections in this particular, the Eastern and thickly settled States having a large excess of females, while the frontier iStates and Territories have a large excess of males. Women also outnumber the men in the large cities, being drawn thither by better wages paid for work in which women engage. Under the head of employments the lecturer showed that of 18,000,OOu’women, 2,647,000 are employed in work for wages. Os this number 632,000 are in manufactures, and 595,000 in agriculture, these principally in tho cotton, rice and sugar producing regions; in domestic service 939,000 are employed. In ten years the number of female physicians and surgeons has increased from 525 to 2,433; of lawyers, from 5 to 75; of sextons, from 7to 14; of teachers, not including music teachers, from 85,000 to 154,000. Instructions to Hungry Democrat*. New York Graphic. Advice gratis to office-seekers is herewith presented, even if it be—os old Sheridan said of a doctor’s announcement—“4o tier cent, above its value. ” Should you address too President, do it in this way: “To tho President: Sir;” not “The Hcuorable Grover Cleveland.” or “To His Excellency,” etc. The title of our chief magistrate is by law simply that of his office, the President. It is enough, and sounds much better thaa “Excellency” or “Honorable.” which have no legal existence, and are in fact a “survival of court flunkeyism. * i m m How the President Enjoys Hand-Shaking. Washington Special. President Cleveland spent the entire day in shaking hands with legions of people who called in delegations and otherwise to pay their respects. To a friend (who facetiously inquired how he liked it, he replied abruptly: “Thank God, the excursion tickets have only throe days 'mere to run.”