Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 22 August 1885 — Page 9

Printed by Bptci*l Arrangement *cith th Author. HICDKG MIM 4 STORY. Bv Louis:: Chandler Moulton.. [Copyrighted IRS.'j by S. S. McClure—All Right* Reserved.] Jacob Riching sat alone in his solid, oldfashioned house, in Washington Square. Fashionable New York had moved up town, but Jacob Riching had no idea of following. He was a stern, hard man, not fond of change. Hie father before him had lived and died in Washington Square, and there had Jacob Riching passed his long life. He was not a man given to retrospect, and it was an odd thing in his experience that, on this evening of Dec. 31, ISS3, memory should have taken his unwilling hand and led him quietly backward, all through the long and lonesome years, to the old time when he, even he, was a young fellow and sat, on such a night as this, before the lire, with his mother at one corner of the heart!..- tone and his father on the other, and he, between them, was dreaming to the tuno of their droning talk his own dreams. . They were solid dr< ams, solid enough, even then. Poetry had never wooed him, art enthralled him, nor even romance touched him with her glamour. lie had passed the two years since he left school in his father's business, and bis dream was that at some not far distant day he should be made a partner, and the old sign of "Riching’s” should be taken down and anew one of "Riching & Son” put up in its place. People would not be long in learning that the new sign meant new fashions. He would extend the business far and wide, and they would find there was now life in the old concern. And that next year his business education went forward so rapidly that his father grew into almost a habit of looking up to him; and, as it happened that on New Year's day he would be twenty-one, it was planned that on that day the old sign should come down and the new one go up, and “Riching & Son” should take tneir place among tho business houses of New York, on the Ist of January, 1840. Advertisements in the papers bad heralded the corning event. James Riching had made a speech to the men he employed, and told them that from the next morning his son's authority ■would be equal with his own. Yet after all it never came to pass. That very night of Dec. 31, 1839, as if death had a grudge against well-laid human plans, a sudden apoplexy called James Riching out of this perplexing world, and his sou reigned in his tho sign was still “liichitig’s.”

Jacob Riching was a wonderfully bright fellow, from a business point qf view, but all the same he would have been very much at a loss in those days but for the aid of his father’s head bookkeeper, a young man himself of not more than twenty tight, but thoroughly familiar with every detail of the business. People made plans for young Riching, as people always do make plans for their neighbors. Os course they said, be would tako Simes into tho business. Simes’s knowledge would boa fair offset to his own capital, and it would be a good thing all round. But these wise people did not know Jacob Riching or his commercial ambitions. He raised Tom Simes’s salary and made it quite worth the book-keeper's whilo to stay on, but he himself was the moving spirit of all and remained sole master. In his secret thoughts he resolved that the firm name should never be changed until a son of his own should be ready to come into it. He had much the same kind of pleasure, perhaps, in the thought of handing down his name and business, from generation to generation, that the head of a ducal house might have in transmitting to the direct heir of his body his title and estate. For a dozen years after his father's death he did not get time to marry. His mother sat at ©no corner of the fire, and he sat in his father's place at the other, and everything in the houso wont on with such monotonous regularity, and one year was so like another, that he hardly realized how they were gliding by him until, aftear a winter of slow decline, death took away the widow Riching aud brought her son face to face, rather abruptly, with the final goal to which all life tends. It was not because Jacob Riching was lonely that at thirty three ho married Emily Ford, but with the thought of "‘Riching it Son’s” in his mind. He came home from bis mother's funeral realizing that he was thirty-three, and that he would do well to look to the prospects of tho future firm. Emily Ford was young, and sweet, and pretty enough to justify any man in marrying her; but Jacob Riching was far too busy and too hard-hearted for such romance as falling in love. He saw in bonny Emily a girl quite suitable in age, fortune and character to be bis wife —a very proper person to bring into the world the junior member of the future firm of ‘"Riching A Son.” If pretty Emily had any hidden romance of her own in connection with the marriage she soon learned kow out of place it was, and put it away with her wedding finery; but oddly enough the substantial comfort of Washington Square did not seem to agree with her. She introduced to the light of day and tho inspection of her lord and master one or two babes, who barely looked around them long enough to cotue to a hasty conclusion that they did not like the world on which they had entered, and so departed from it. Jacob was honestly sorry; since these disaffected flyaways, who would not remain with him, were sons, and might have in time fulfilled his hopes, had they chosen to stay here.

It was not until he had been five y.ears mar ried that any child concluded to abide with the household, and this time it was a girl, who, with the patience of her sex, decided to make the best of life having once entered upon it. Oddly enough, as she was the first child that decided to live, so she was the last. After her birth Mrs. Kiching’s health seemed to fail gradually, and though she staid fifteen years longer, she became a sort, of fireside fixture, and the outside world almost forgot hor existence. Tlio little one was named after her mother, Emily; but the name got shortened into Emmy. It seemed as if all the vitality that the mother had lost had "Titered into the child, '■die was an intensified repetition of what Emily Ford had been us a girl—the same happy, cheery, bright creature, only a little more beautiful, a little gayer, and decab diy more intense in her nature than the mother had ever been. She was the daughter Jacob Ra iling did not want, instead of the son he so passionately desired, and he troubled hirn®hlf very little .tbout her. He never go? well enough acquainted with her to be fond of her, and he left her up bringing entirely to her mother. >She would not have et>n the happy creature she was it she had a' *d realized how that gentle guardian was fadU/fir out of life, for her mother was at that stage the one idol of her earnest soul. One evening Mrs. Riehinjr complained a little of a pain about the heart. Emmy noticed that

her lips were white, and kissed them, as she said, to make them red again. The two satiate before a dying fire. Business often kept Jacob Riching busy until far into the night, and he had fallen into tho habit at such times of staying in a room of his own that bis wife’s light and easily broken slumbers might not be disturbed by his coming. Yery often mother and daughter sal alone, as on this evening: but tonight something unspoken seemed to draw them closer together than usual as they sut hand-iu-hand ’n the low firelight. "You are getting almost a woman,” the mother said. "Quite, I think,” Emmy answered. "Why. I've heard you say grandma was married at 13. and I’m taller than you. little mother, already. ’ The mother smoothed back the brown, waving hair from the girl's broad brows, and said, fondly: . * "That was in old times, dear. Girls are not so foolish nowadays. I hope it may be many a year yet before my girleen goes away to leave inj in tho cold. Child, you have been the oue joy of my life.” "Then you can count on your joy for a long time to come, I think. He’d have to be such a man as I've never st-en yet who could coax me away from my mammy.” And then some brands fell and Emmy picked them up, and the fire sprang into fresh life and glinted on the girl's bright, dark eyes and warm cheeks and soft hair, find a sense of her beauty, keen almost to pain, struck home to her mother's heart. "Ah. but you will marry, sometime,” she said with a long sigh, "and somehow I dread it for you. You need warmth. You could not bear a cold, dead life. What, lam going to say will sound romantic, dear child, hut there’s no ono but you to hear me, and I tell you now that of ail the good things that belong to this present life, true love is the best. Marry the man whom you love and who loves you. Let nothing else tempt you—nothing prevent you.” It was after events, no doubt, which made these words seem to Emmy so sacred and so binding, for they, and the good night that followed them, were the hast her mother ever spoke. That night Emilj Riching died, and quietly and uncomplainingly as she had lived. When the morning sun looked in to find her, she had gone, beyond the right and the stars, to the world that has no need of the sun by day. Jacob Riching took his wife's death very calmly. From his point of view her life had been a failure, for the firm of Riching Son had been exactly twenty years postponed by his marrying her. It looked a lit lie as if providence had been opposed to bis designs; but Jacob Riching was but fifty-three then, and rich, and his purpose sprang up afresh from his wife's grave, lie waited a decorous year, for he was a proper man and then he proposed to a young lady who seemed to him, as Emily Ford had done, a quite suitable wife. Unfortunately the young lady’s views did not coincide with iris own, and her decided refusal took him by surprise. Twice afterwards he made similar vain attempts to ally himself properly, and then ceased his efforts in that direction.

Meantime, Emmy, left very much to herself, had found her chief comfort in the house of her father's housekeeper. Mrs. Simes had been one of the few persons whom the lato Mrs. Riching had welcomed into her retirement, and Emmy had known and liked her from a child. With her heart well-nigh broken by her mother's death she]had turned to this old friend for comfort, and had grown to be almost like a daughter in the Simes house before it had even entered in Jacob liiching's bead to ask himself what had become of her. And in tho Simes house was a son, some six pears older than Emmy, already doing very reasonably well in business, and quite capable of knowing bis own mind. And this son, Thomas Simes, Jr., bad been quite aware that he was in love with Emmy, ever since a day when lie found her sitting with his mother, clad in her deep mourning, with her face that seemed to him the saddest thing in tho world, and the sweetest. And though the subject bad never been hinted at between them, be sure that Emmy knew lus heart, and had answered its muttered question with all her own. After Jacob Riching had failed in his third and last attempt at wooing, he quietly conceded the point that fate had tallied him m that especial direction; but he was as much disinclined to be beaten as ever, and anew plan formed itself in his mind. Emmy should marry. Emmy's husband should add the name of Riching to his own, and thus, at last, should Riching A* Son come to be one of the great business names of New York, and might, after all, be handed down from generation to generation, even as he hud at first planned. Having come to this conclusion, and being a nan of business and a trader to the blunt ends of his strong fingers, be went home to take stock—that is to say*, to look at Emmy with a keen eye to her market value. It would have been hard to find a lovelier young creature of 17 than this one who awaited him in his warm, brightly-lighted dining-room. Jacob Riching perceived this fact with a pleasant surprise. He was more social than usual, and after dinner he even turned Emmy a compliment on her good looks, and accompanied his request that she should leave off her mourning and choose herself a proper wardrobe to go into society witii a check which quite astonished her by its magnitude. "But I have no chaperone, papa,” she said, gently'. "Mrs. Smith does very well to keep house, and to sit in the room -when my music and language masters come, but I could liardiy go to parties with her.” "Certainly not, ' Mr. Riching answered with heroic self-denial. "I will go with you. 1 can afford to put mv work aside somewhat in your interest; and you are not likely to need me always. ” The next year's life to Emmy Riching was something other than she had known. She wore beautiful gowns. She drove in a well appointed carriage. She went to numberless parties. She entertained at home; and. being but mortal like her peers, she would no doubt have been very much spoiled but for the refuge from worldliness which she found at tho Simeses quiet fireside and the strong though still unspoken love that held her heart. It was a year before any admirer presented himself to Miss Riching who found favor with her father. When at last such a one came he was an old-young man, canny and prosperous, with a reasonably good fortune aud a strong commercial ambition. Had siu-li a son of his own been given to Jacob Riching then indeed would his cup of content have been full to the brim. The next best thing would be to have him for a son-in-law. As was befitting so reasonable a suitor, the young man spoke first to the father of his charmer and was met on the threshold of his wooing by the stipulation that if his suit were successful he should add Riching to his own name, enter into the business with his father inlaw aud be the "son” of Riching & Son. Probably nothing could have pleased him better, but he was commercial enough to show a little discreet hesitation. 110 presently, however, accepted the condition, and Jacob Riching undertook to prepare his daughter to give him a favorable answer. You have seen that Emmy Riching bad her life by disappointing her father. She ought in the outset to have been her own brother—and it certainly seemed to be the least she could do* to make up for this by giving her father a son-in-law after his own heart. Jacob Riching, then, had reason on his side when, lingering a little after breakfast was over, he laid before Emmy' the proposal of Mr. Straiton, and confidently expected her pleased acquiescence. "But that man!” came in a sort of gasp from her lips, and her eyes grew suddenly very’ wide and bright. Naturally her father, his own mind already made up, misapprehended the purport of her exclamation. "Yes,” he said, with an air of self-congratula-tion, "Robert Straiton. He did hesitate a little at first about adding Riching to his name, but he soon consented, and 1 offered to speak to you to prepare you for his coming.” "I'm very glad you did. It’s much easier. Why, papa, I would not take him if he were a gold mine. I hate him.” This vehemence, so unexpected, and really, as we must admit, so objectionable, nearly stunned Mr. Riching. lie was silent for a full minute, and then he remarked, with a magisterial air which he had found answer very well iu liis business: “Miss Riching, I am not accustomed to have mv propositions met with such violence; and certainly in this matter I consider myself the best judge for what is for your interest. I will leave you to think the matter over, and by dinner time I shall expect to find you in a bettor frame of mind.” Thereupon he made bis exit with dignity. Boor Emmy! With no mother to comfort her what should she do but betake herself to motherly Mrs. Simes? And what subtile instinct of

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL,, SATURDAY, AUGUST 32, 1885.

the position was it that brought Mr. Thomas Simes. jr., home to luncheon? I not telling, you will please to remember, the story of Miss Emmy Richtng’s heart, but only of her father's struggle to get his own way in spite of Providence — and 1 should think scorn of deliberately listening to the vows of true lovers. But anybody who was at all near by might have heard young Simes’s last words: "You know you are eighteen, Emmy, and no one can force you to marry against your will. You are sure you won't give in?” And equally well anjone might have heard her answer: "I! I thought you knewrne better than that.” That evening Jacob Riching was quite prepared to receive his daughter's dutiful submission. She was her own bright, bonny self at dinner,-and he could hardly have been better pleased with her if she had been her own brother. When dinner was over, and they were alone, tho father said quietly: "I expect Mr. Straiton about 9.” "You will kindly excuse me from seeing him, papa?” "By no means. lie is coming to see you; and I expect you toniake it pleasant for hipi.” "I can hardly do that, papa. 1 shall never marry him.” "You will ?o out of my house if you don’t, *’ Riching said hotly. He had forgotten that his daughter had his own blood in her veins, and could be as resolute as himself. "I was quite prepared for that,” she answered very quietly. "You know lam past eighteen and free to please myself in marriage, though I would have preferred to please you, also. But I must marry the man whom I love.” "Love?” ‘There was la quite indescribable scorn in Mr. Riching’s tone, as ho uttered that sentimental, objectionable word. "Yes, papa. The very last charge my mother gave me, the night before siio died, was to marry for love, and for love only.” It was on the very lip of Jacob Riching's tongue to say: "Your mother was a failure, from first to last:” but something, he hardly knew what, restrained him. He only asked, with a sneer: "Have you then already found this beloved object, that you are so unwilling to give the man of my choice an opportunity to speak for himself?” "Yes, papa: I am engaged to Mr. Thomas Simes, jr.; and I mean to marfy him.” "Do tiie parents of Mr. Thomas Simes, jr., know of this delectable engagement?” "No! we thought it right to speak first to you.” "And since when, may I be allowed to ask, have you been engaged?” "Since to-day at noon.” “Ah! and the matter is quite settled?” "Yes, papa; and now that you know I must mnrry him you will be kind to us. won't you, if it were only for my mother’s sake?” "1 am not a father in a dime novel,” Mr. Riching said, grimly. "I wish you no harm. Simply, if you carry out this plan I am done with you —quite done. Take till to-morrow night to think it over. I will send a message to postpone Mr. Straiton’s visit nil then, and meantime you may come to your senses. If I find you here when I come home to-morrow night I shall take it for granted you mean to obey me. Otherwise, perhaps you will make other arrangements.”

The next morning Jacob Riching sent for the head book-keeper. "Simes,” he asked, "do you know that my daughter is engaged to your son ?” The utter amazement on Thomas Simes’s face made answer even more strongly than his words: "Certainly not.” "So it is. But lam a just man, and since you are evidently not to blame, and the thing has gone on without your knowledge, it shall make no difference in our business relations. The girl may come to her senses and give the whole thing up; but if not, and they marry, I simply wish never to hear either of their names mentioned by you while you remain in my employment. You understand me?” "Perfectly. You have the habit of being understood and obeyed, Mr. Riching.” When Jacob Riching went home that night the dinner-table was arranged for one only; but upon his plate lay a little note in his daugtirer's handwriting—a note which said: "I have made up my mind what to do. I am going to 31 rs. Simes. You will have due notice of ray marriage, but I will trouble you no farther until you send for me.” The interview which came afterward with .Mr. Straiton was not pleasant for Jacob Rich ing. Once more he had been worsted in his struggle to have his own wav He told the whole truth frankly, and the old-young man, with that composure which was his strong point, answered politely: "I regret my own disappointment, certainly, but, as for yours, might not the son in-law of your daughter's choice add your name to his own. and come into the firm, as I would have done had I been so fortunate as to please her?” "I think be will, when I invito him.” Jacob Riching answered. Os course the self-willed young people were married in a few weeks, and no doubt they rejoiced in the days of their youth; but I really am not disposed to trouble myself about them any more than Papa Riching did. Let them go on in their self-willed way. They were company enough for each other. It was only Jacob Riching who was lonesome. It was in 1873 that the mutineers were married, and at that time the great merchant was only fifty-six. There might still have been time, perhaps, to outwit fate by marriage, but former defeats had dis couraged the man, and he went on his silent and solitary way without further striving. From time to time a question came to him, rather as a suggestion from outside than as a thought originating in his own mind, whether he had done quite right by Tom Simes, the father, lie remembered how very necessary Simes had been to the beginning of his success, and wondered whether such services were after all, quite repaid, even by a good salary; and would it not have been a fairer thing by Simes if be had consented that the children should marry, and taken Sinies’s son as his partner? But, for the most part, Jacob Riching was able to turn a deaf ear to this impertinent whisper from somewhere. So the years wen to n. It is just possible that for willful Emmv and her young husband time galloped withal: but it moved heavily enough for solitary Jacob Riching. 110 had been thoroughly beaten by fate. To found the house of "Riching & Son” had been tho dream of his boyhood, the ambition of his voting manhood, the strong purpose of his middle age, and again and again had stern death met him on the threshold of his desires, and at last love—the young foolish love of a girl and boy —had overthrown him utterly. His business grew and grew—and he pushed it on vigorously, rather from habit than from any real interest. His name would die with him, and he could nor carry his fortune through the gates of the grave. I have just come now to the place where my story began. The time is the 31st of December, 1883, and Jacob Riching, at sixty four, feels himself already an old man. It: wu- in the melancholy company of his thoughts that we have gone back to his boyhood, aud then on through the advancing years that have at last left him so old. so solitary and so sad. It is as if he, who had taken stock of so many things, were now taking stock of his own life. Whab indeed, was tiie sum of these years of struggle? He was restless. He felt as if some change were before him. He though of his wife, dead so long ago. Could she be reaching out pale hands to draw him into the world where she was gone? No, surely; for lie realized, in his final stock-taking, that the only thing iu her for which ho had never bargained was her love. What, then was this undefined inlluence which was making solitude terrible? lie must get away from it, somehow. He would go to Simes’s. At least lie should find someone to speak to there. YV hv. old Simes, now he thought of it, was seventy one; and yet how young and cheerful he always seemed! What 'was the secret? He was still not quite sure ho had done just the right thing by Simes. Perhaps he ought to have given him a share in the business; and he would have dono so years ago, only he had been so set upon keeping it intact for "Riching & Son.” Well, perhaps there was something ho could do about it even yet. He put on his overcoat and went out into the keen cold of the December night It was a gay night, as the night before New Year's is wont to be. The life of which the streets were full made his loneliness lonelier. The frosty air made bis quiet blood tingle. He felt a sharp sense of his own existence. Actually he, too, was hurrying with the rest. After a brisk walk of a quarter of an hour be found himself at bis bookkeeper’s door. Old Simes himself opened it; and a look of puzzled surprise crossed his face as he saw what visitor bad arrived. "Anything wrong, Mr. Riching?" he asked anxiously.

"No, nothing; unless it’s wrong that I should be paying you an unexpected visit.” "No, no, bless my soul, no!” the good bookkeeper cried, hospitable even in his embarrassment. "Walk up stairs. I hope—l say—l mean, it's a sort of family gathering to-night —kind of a watch the old year out business, you know.” He bustled on as he spoke. Mr. Riching followed silently up the stairs and into the door of a brightly lighted, cheerful looking sitting room. And the warm glow of fire and lamps fell upon a family gathering, as 3lr. Simes had said. Motherly 31 rs. Simes, with her soft white hair and her tranquil face, sat at one corner of the fireplace, and against her knees a sturdy little boy of perhaps four years old was leaning. At the table, looking over a book of pictures, was a brown haired little girl; some two years older, and beside her, telling her the story of the pictures, was a youug man, handsome enough, aud, if tho witness of his face could be trusted, good enough, to justify any woman for loving him. And at the other corner of the fireplace sat, as of course you know by this time, Emmy—brighter, happier, handsomer than ever. What would Jacob Riching do? He walked up to old 31 rs. Simes and shook hands with her, and then he crossed over to young 3lrs. Simes and put out his hand. "So this is what I came for?” he said. "I see you are not sorry for anyhir.g, Emmy?” "I'm not sorry to see you, papa,” Emmy said, smiling. "It was alii needed to make me altogether happy.” Jacob Riching cleared his throat "It's New Year's Day, to-morrow,” he said. If that seems an irrevelant remark to the reader, I havo no doubt that Jacob Riching knew just what he meant by it. The very next day lie proposed to Thomas Simes, jr., to add to his own the name of Riching and come into the firm. "I might have done so in the beginning of things,” the young man answered, "but I’ve lived too long now as Thomas Simes. jr., to show my father's name, at this late day, the disrespect of changing it.” "It will have to be Riching & Cos., then, after all; for I must have vou for my partner. 1 sat out for the firm of ‘Riching 3c Son,’ and I've struggled hard enough for it; but when a man fights against Providence lie doesn’t seem to get the best of it.”

I. ON II o N S1 : WAG E. What It Is Estimated To lie Worth, and Plans for Its Disposal Considered. Bradstreet’s Reports. It iias been computed that the annual value of London sewage amounts to 8s 9<l per individual, and, estimating the population at 4,000,000 persons, the total value would be more than $8,000,000 per annum. It would thus appear, on the face of it, that in some way or other this sum should be saved for the city. There are two ways of deriving profit from sewage; one is lij’ tiie application of sewage to land, as for instance, is done in Pullman, 111., or from treatment by chemical processes. Precedents for the first plan exist in Great Britain, the more notable ones being in Edinburg and Doncaster: but. from neither of these could the commissioners derive sufficient encourage ment to infer that the pumping and other exnenses would not cancel all of the possible profits The second plan is regarded as yet more unfa vorably, tor the "available material value of the sewage is at present too small to admit of obtaining from it any product which can be Hold ;i t anything like the cost of its production ” With reference to the plans for the treatment of the metropolitan sewage, four possible schemes are presented and analyzed. These are broad irrigation, filtration through land, processes cf deposition or precipitation, and precipitation supplemented by application to land. The testimony seems to be quite decisive and uniform that for every one hundred persons one acre would be needed in broad irrigation, and that the sewage should be strained or purified before permitted to finally pass upon the surface of the land. When it is remembered that 40,000 acres are equal to about sixty two square miles, the impracticability of this scheme is apparent.. for no such farming area can be found in the neighborhood of London. The method which meets with the greatest favor from the commission is the last one mentioned. The chief advantage is that trie sewage is thereby much more thoroughly deprived of its noxious qualities. The process is found in actual us<; in Birmingham, and is and escribed as follows: "The sewage is treated with lime and alioe -M to deposit in a series of large tanks; the clarified liquid is then passed through porous land, after which it. runs into the river, being found perfectly innocuous. Tho sludge deposit, which amounts to 380 tons a day, is allowed to run in its semi-fluid state upon a portion of the land laid out to receive it, after which it is dug into tho ground which is covered with soil, planted, cropped, and used for filtration. One acre per week is allotted for this purpose, and the land so used remains for three years before sludge is put upon it again. Thus the quantity of land required for the disposal of the sludge would be 13(5 acres.” Such a system meets the chief difficulties. It does not require the large area demanded for broad irrigation, and it clarifies the filth which is now nolluting the Thames, even up to the bridge. The history of London's sewage experiment conclusively shows that a city has not solved the problem when it has even devised a method of drawing off its drainage. The termini must, be considered, as well as tho lines of transportation.

The Value of a Word, Decorator and Furnisher. One of the most amusing phases of the sudden growth of art culture among our people is the recognition of the value of any word that embodies this {estheticfeeling. "Art”and "artist," simple enough in themselves, have become the two most popular words, and are sought to distinguish every business that can be carried on by human kind. There is an "artist” in bootblacking, and from this eminently useful, though rather ordinary profession, up to the genuine maker of pictures, tiie word artist is profusely used. An advertisement recently caught our eye, from the very striking form of ttie type making the line, "The American Artist.” and preceded by the name of the assumed artist.' which in itself was sufficiently singular to be noticeable?. Reading the advertisement we were kept in constant reminder that the advertiser was an artist and nothing else, and it was not until the last line was reached that the word "tailor” was discovered. This is evidence of the superior attractiveness of language that appeals to tho imagination rather than that which sets forth the actual wants of the body. '■ * Damage Done by Avalanches. London Times. A statistical memoir lately issued by the Italian government enables us to form some idea of the great destruction caused annually by avalanches in the Alpine districts of Italy and the Tyrol. In the single district of the Val di Susa two avalanches fell on Jan. 18; one at Devies, between Exilles and Salbertand, was estimated at about GO meters long and G deep, and slid down the slope a distance of about a kilometer. Its volume is supposed to have been 300,000 cubic meters, and the weight of snow composing it was 45.000 tons. It destroyed 16 houses and killed 43 persons. The second avalanche of Jan. 18 fell near Vetiaus, was 150 meters long, its volume was about 3.000.000 cubic meters, and it bore nearly a quarter of a million tons of snow. But although the slide extended to nearly four kilometers, only 24 houses were wrecked by it and G persons killed. A third avalanche, which fell at Mafiotto, and was computed to contain little more than I,GOO tons weight of snow, was much more destructive, killing 17 persons and destroying 18 homes. Using Salt to Keep Elies Away. Pittsburg Chronicle. "What’s that for?” asked a customer of a waiter in a Smithfield street restaurant. Tiie water had a bag of table salt in his hand and was springling the contents behind the counter and on the floor where tho crumbs might fall. "It is to keep tho flies away,” replied the waiter. "How does it do it?” “Can’t say, sah: ask the manager.” "We find,” said the manager, "that by sprinkling salt where there are broken victuals, dirty plates and other things which attract Hies, we can keep these pests away. It (ilia the air with saline particles, and we have no trouble at all. You can see that this is so by looking here.” • Scraps of bread, melon rinds and broken meats and pieces of plates were in baskets and shelves behind the counter, but there were not a dozen flies in sight. •

CURING WILD BEASTS. Difficulty of Treating the Animals—Dyspeptic Camels and Kangaroos with Colds. Philadelphia Record. Visitors to the Zoological Garden during the past week have been struck with the general air of debility among most of the animals. Nearly ail of them either moved about listlessly, or else moped in corners and refused to move at all. The chimpanzee kept her blanket tightly drawn around her shoulders all through the week, and no dainty could tempt her to leave her favorite corner. Even the monkeys were less clamorous for favors, and the toothsome peanut palled on their usvally insatiable appetite. The larger animals, and especially the carnivora, suffered even more than the little ani mals. The lions and leopards stopped their ceaseless promenade and lay all day long with their noses between their paws watching events through their half-open eyelids. Superintendent Brown explained this state of apathy among the animals yesterday. •‘There has been more sickness among tho animals during the past week than at any time in the history of the garden,” lie said. * ‘Contrary to the rule, there was very little suffering among them during the heated spell which ended about a week ago, but as soon as the break-up came and the mercury took such a terrible tumble nearly every animal felt the effects of the change, and almost a majority of them were taken sick. The camels were the greatest sufferers. Every one in the garden was prostrated with dyspepsia and a general derangement of the alimentary canal. “One of them is still very ill, and it is not expected that lie will recover. Three or four of the carnivora are sick, and one of the pumas was very ill with cholera morbus. He refused to take any nourishment, and the only thing he could be induced to take was an occasional swallow of water. We tried for two days to give him a dose of bismuth and opium, but we had to give it up. The medicines were diluted with water until it was impossible for the human palate to detect their presence, but the puma discovered it at the first sniff, and refused to touch it. He didn’t eat a morsel for five days, but he is coming around all right now. “Last night he consented to eat a nicely broiled spring chicken and I think he will be himself again in a few days. Another puma was greatly prostrated and l am afraid he is too old to rally. Bennett’s wallaby, a variety of the kangaroo, caught a severe cold at the time of the sudden change and died, after a brief illness, of pneumonia. One of the sea lions was prostrated by the heat just before the cold wave came, and probably died of congestion of the brain. 1 made a post-mortem examination of his body and could find no other cause of death. The chimpanzee was also severely effected by the change. She caught a cold in her head and refused to eat anything except an occasional piece of banana or orange. "We have had her for three rears, and this is only the second time that she has been ill. During these spells of sickness we treat her the same as any human invalid. We never try to force her to ohi, but simply wait until nature asserts itself, and then tempt her returning appetite with any little delicacy she might crave. At one time she went, three weeks without tasting a morsel, except a few pieces of fruit, but when 'her appetite returned she ate like a pig. Many of the small animals are seriously indisposed, but most of them are simply suffering with disordered stomachs and loss of appetite. “in caring for sick animals we generally rely on the ordinary veterinary treatment. We use very little medicine, beyond an occasional tonic, astringent or laxative. In many cases the administering of medicines works more harm than good. I find our best reliance to be in careful watching and dieting. Aside from the harm the medicines might do a wild animal, there are other considerations against administering them that are much more important. In tho first place it is hard to tell what is the matter with a wild animal when it is simply off its feed. It is not practicable to feel its pulse, listen to the beating of its heart and do various other things usual in diagnosing a case in a human being. “It is generally a wild guess in determining what ails a wild beast. \\ hen you have decided what ails it. however, the next question is, •What shall I give it?’ Drugs have a different effect on different animals. A dose that would kill one animal will have no effect on another. But, even if you know what to give it, the next and most serious question arises, ‘How shall I administer the medicine?'

“The Greatest difficulty, of course, is met with in piving medicine to the larger animals. The process is always attende l with danger, and in many instances the patient dies either from fright or shock to its nervous system. In order to administer a dose of medicine to a wild beast, it is necessary to bind it down with ropes, and when it is firmly secured .drench it in the way practiced in dosing horses.. This treatment always results in a severe shock to the animal’s nerves, and frequently produces death. A wild animal will not permit itself to be handled like a domesticated animal. Jt will always lash itself into a fury, and in this lies tiie danger of overcoming it by rough measures; and still this is the only way that it can be dosed. “Their sense of taste is so perfectly developed that they can detect any foreign substance on the instant and will refuse to touch their food. Os course it is often necessary to throw animals for the purpose of cutting their claws or paring their hoofs or making any surgical operation, but we always employ a great deal of care in securing the animal. “Recently we had occasion to throw a zebra, and it took seven men to accomplish it without injury to the animal. Then again we must have regard for the safety of the men. A full grown camel can kick as hard as a whole train of government mules. Many animals we can’t handle at all. For instance, you can’t lasso a polar bear, as ids neck and ankles are larger than his head or feet, and the rope would naturally slip off as fast as you could throw it on. The elephant is the hardest beast to throw, bat is less subject to nervous bbock than the other wild animals.” -■ ■ ■ —■ffflr— - Public Baths. Demorc-st’s Monthly. Some of the most splendid works of ancient Rome were its public baths. Their remains are to day the wonder of ail who visit the imperial city. It is evident that the Romans under the emperors were a more cleanly p'*oplo than the ordinary dweller in our modern large cities. Jt is noticeable that in all capitals of the world today there is a disposition to imitate the Romans. Public baths are recognized as being as essential as common schools. Public health can bo preserved in no better way than in providing means for keeping the mass of the population clean. We are rediscovering also a fact well known to the Romans, that hot air and vapor baths have a therapeutic value. They cure diseases of various kinds. The public baths of Vienna almost vie with some of the Roman baths, and are the finest in the world. The building is situated in the heart of the city, is 570 feet in length and 170 in width, and has accommodations for 1,500 persons at one time. There are abo accommodations for women. In New York and other of our large cities free baths in summer were first looked upon as an experiment, but are now regarded as a necessity, and their popularity yearly increases. Other large capitals, sudi as London and Paris, are hindered in providing bathing facilities because of the difficulty of procuring sufficient water; but from the tendencies er the ago, it is very clear that before the twentieth century has far advanced the public baths of the modern world will vie with those of ancient Rome, not only in general utility but in splendor. Where She Found the Needle. Host on Transcript. “Some twenty years ago,” said the mild faced stranger, “my wife, while sewing, suddenly missed her needle. She saw nothing more of it, and soon forgot all about her loss until last week, when— “When she suddenly felt a pricking sensation in her right foot.” suggested Hoodie. “When the point of the needle showed itself between her shoulder blades,” guessed Coodle. “When the needle was seen protruding irom her youngest daughter’s left forefinger," intimated Poodle. “No,” said the mild faced stranger; * you are all wrong. She found it in a crack m the lloor. It had been there all those years. Singular, wasn’t it#” There was a common de-ire to welter in the blood of tho mildfaced stranger: but, with difficulty. Hoodie, Coodle and Doodle restrained themselves. Where Some “Blue” Blood Came From. London Echo. During the troubles in the reign of Charles Ia country girl came to London in search of a place as a servant maid, but not succeeding, she hired herself to carry out beer from a warehouse, and was one of those called tub women. Tho brewer,

observing a good looking girl in this low occupation, took her into his family as a servant, and, after a short time, married her. He died while she was yet a young woman, and left her tho bulk of his fortune. The business of browing was dropped, and Hyde was recommended to her as a skillful lawyer to arrange her husband’s affairs. Hyde, who was afterward Earl of Clarendon, finding tho widow’s fortune considerable, married her. By this marriage there was no othor issue than a daughter, who afterward became the wife of James 11, and mother of Mary and Anne, queens of England, CONCERNING THE NEGRO, The Real and the Burlesque—How They Got News in the War. Atlanta Constitution. Os course negro minstrelsy as an illusion. It represents nothing on earth excent the abnormal development of a most extraordinary bmleeque. Perhaps the very breadth and stature (so to speak) of this burlesque, overshadowing and potting to shame all modern burlesques, gives it strength and vitality, for it is enjoyed with as keen n reiish in the South, where the negro is supposed to be known, as it is in any part of the North, where all that is known of tho negro is that he was a slave, and that he has what may bo called a humorous turn. In Georgia, for instance, we have long ago ceased to ask ourselves why the stage negro appears in variegated clothes, with his coat tails dragging the floor, or why it is that liis pasteboard shirt collars threaten to scrape the hardoil finish from the moon, or why his buttous are as large as saucepans. We have long ago ceased to remember that the negro was and is anything but a comic character; that he made no puns and ‘asked no conundrums. Under the vital influence of the stage we have even ceased to remember his seriousness, a feature intensified rather than lightened by his humor. When, therefore, the mammoth (or the mastodon, as the case may be) aggregation of minstrels march in and proceed to crack tho old jqkes wo have seen in the almanac, and perform on all sorts of difficult instruments, and warble sentimental rones, we accept it all as genuine—at any rate we enjoy it as keenly as if were an unexaggerated transcript from life. But it is all false in fact. It is not even passable burlesque; for a burlesque to be passable must have some grain of truth of bottom. In the summer of 1804, when Sherman was manipulating his army in the neighborhood of Atlanta, a negro named Hnrbert, living on the Turner plantation, in Putnam county, met the writer hereof in the woods, and said he wanted to have u talk. Something like the following colloquy ensued: “What is the matter now, Hnrbert?'’ “I tell you, honey, I ain’t feelin' well in my min’.” “What is the trouble?” “Well, sir, look liko ter mo dey gwine tor be trouble all 'round yer.” “What kind of trouble, Harbert?’’ “War trouble—war trouble. Dem Yankee folks, dey’er cornin’ sho.” “How do you know?” “De news done got in ’mongst my bones. Dey’er cornin' sho. Dey're coinin' right yer.” Harbert’s statement was laughed at as the wildest vagary, but the colloquy proceeded: “Well, suppose they do come, what aro you going to do?” “When, honey?” “Why, when they come?” “Who? Me? Bless yo' soul, honey! I'm a gwine ter git up : fo’ day, fry my meat en cook my bread an’ eat my brekus.” “Well, what are you going to do after you eat your breakfast?” “Bless yo’soul, honey! I’m a gwine ter whirl in an’ git my dinner —ez nigh cz l kin. I’m a gwine ter whirl in en git my dinner.” “And then what will you do?’’“Well, sir, after 1 gits my dinner, I'm a gwine ter fly ‘round’ en see es I can’t git mo some supper.” “Then what?” “Den I'm gwin ter march ter de house en an ax marster es ho ain't got nothing else for me ter do. Den, after dat, I’m gwine back en git me a little sack er sump’n n'ev ter eat, en den I’ll drap back in my cheer and nod. Dat’s mo, up en down.” After this eonveration with Harbert he was in the habit of giving his young white friend a great deal of information in regard to the movements of the Union ‘army. Whether he was moved by a desire to insure the personal safety of his friend, or merely by a desire to impress a youngster's mind with statements that seemed at the time to be the inventions of tho wildest imagination, but which turned out to tie literally true, it is impossible to say. But Harbert was better informed and more accurate than the newspapers of that day, albeit his method of dispensing the news seemed to take the somewhat picturesque shape of prophecy. There can be no doubt that this negro —and of course others in that section —knew that Sherman's army would march through Putnam, and by the Turner plantation. The mystery is not such a mystery after all. Plantation discipline was severer in form than in fact. It was a rule, for instance, that negroes should not visit neighboring plantations without the written consent of their owners—this witten consent taking the shape of a pass. A negro without this pass was liable to be caught and punished by the patrol. Asa matter of fact, however, tho patrol exercised its functions of visiting from plantation to plantation only at long intervals’, and even during tho war period, when most of the able bodied men were in the confederate army, its viglance was not measurbly increased. The result w r as that a negro rarely thought of asking for a pass unless he had occasion to make a journey that would carry him to a strange neighborhood. He visited his friends and acquaintances without let or hindrance. and there was a constant coming and going among the plantations at all times of the night.

The Barrel and the Keg. On a certain Occasion a Barrel, which was half full of rainwater, found itself beside a Keg of Brandy. There was plenty of room for both, but the Keg could not repress its Vanity, and soon remarked: “Singular that it takes such a stout Barrel to hold such weak Liquid.” “And it is singular how much Quarreling, Murder and General Rascalityjcan be cooped up into such small bulk,” retorted the Barrel. “I’vegot the strength of ten full barrels of Water.” “Yes. but all good men detest you.” They Scolded away for half an hour, taunting each other with having lived in Chicago and St. Louis, and finally agreed to leave it to the Owner of the store. The Keg stated the case, and asked for a decision. “Why, as to that,” he answered, “you contain a very good quality of Fusil Oil, and the Barrel holds about the same quantity of rain water, with certain Chemicals dissolved. Each by yourself you are of very little value, but when I pour the Fusil into the Barrel, as I soon will, behold the result will be thirty-two gallons of best French Brandy —imported for this house direct from Paris. Now shut up while I tie some more Cobwebs to the corks of these Champagne Bottles.” Moral: None of us are of much value to the world when we stand alone. A Cure for the Drinking Habit* Atlanta Constitution. “My greatest weakness lias proved a tower of strength to me,” said a prohibitionist, yesterday. “Explain.” “It was m this way: I used to drink like a fish. People began to say that I couldn’t quit, that I was ruined. That, made mo mad. I hud a good deal of vanity, and I cultivated it, gave it a regular hot house forcing. 1 worked myself up to a point where I imagined myself the greatest man in Atlanta, struggling with a crowd of malignant rivals who were hoping and praying for my downfall through tho whisky habit. I began to feel an exquisite pleasure in disappointing my imaginary enemies. This voluntary delusion of mine grew into an apparent reality, it dominates me yet. It has made me an offeii give egotist, but it saved mo from whisky, and that is something.” This novel liquor antidote is worth trying. It costs nothing, and almost every man has a supply of it on hand all tho t i m o. Young Men Not to Blaine. Philadelphia Times. Os course the young men are not to blame for the falling off in the number of marriage* Who ever heard of a young man that was ;u any singlo or double respect? Asa rule, never smoke, drink, or idle the time away, 'hut are busy, day after day, developing their mental qualities by industrious study and saving their hard-earned wages for the purpose of getting married at a later day. Girls frequent beersaloons, play pool, and orgauize expensive clubs, but the young maa has no time for such frivolous entertainment.

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