Ligonier Banner., Volume 14, Number 2, Ligonier, Noble County, 1 May 1879 — Page 3

Che Ligonier Banuer, .LIGC\);‘}:IfER, ’:f u: r“: r?;rl‘;l:;:&NA.

THE CITY HOUSE-HUNTER. WO goeth round from place to place, Like 532 who walks to v?in a ra.eg. With weariness writ on his face? : The House-Hunter. i Who, every night, when home he gets, The paper takes and down he sits To seek For Rents and To: be Lets? : ‘ /Ihe House-Hunter. : Who rideth on snburban jaunts? i Who searcheth out unwholesome haunts, | But rarely findeth what he wants? : The House-Hunter. : : Who climbeth many a breakneck stair, Where rats, and mice, and roaches are— The Cimex lectularius’ lair? . The House-Hunter. : . Whose pockets are borne down by keys 1+ Of tenements? Who visits these? J Whose ho&e grows faint the more he sees? he House-Hunter. Who, when he's forced to choose at last, Sees furniture on cart piled fast, While some upon the Eround is cast? The House-Hunter. Who, when he gets to new abode, Finds all things veiled in dust of road? - Or ruined, if it rained or snowed? . The House-Hunter. ‘Who finds his carpets will not do That curtains must be purchased, too, And chairs and tables fg.;' and few? The House-flunter. i th swears, as he has sworn before,v That he will move again no more? : Who’ll soon be hunting as of yore? L \ The House-Hunter. ! . —Boston Transcript.

4¢MAKING OUT.” You needn’t cry, Roxie. It seems to you worse than it is. I am happy,. truly I am. I wouldn’t ask to be happier if it wasn’t for the thought of Aim. And sometimes I'm at peace even about him. While there’s one poor heart lice mine to follow him with prayers, 1 can’t think the Lord of all grace is goini to forget him—can_you Now you are c¢rying' more than before. Do not take it so hard, Roxie. It seems harder to you than to me, because we are so unlike. I'm usedstp making out, you know? Do You remember when we were littleigirls how ou used to hate your patchwork. You Kated it so fiercely I never quite dared tell you how much I liked it for fear of provoking you. But [ liked putting the odds and ends together to see what they would make. Once you came into our house when mother had set me to making myself an apron out of her old calico dress. You said you'd never make an apron for yourself if you couldn’t have new cloth to make it of. But I did not wish for new cloth at all. I really liked the other best because it was old and soft, and I had grown familiar with it, seeing it on mother. = . And don’t you remen¥oer when we were apprenticed to Miss "Cumnor, the dress-maker, how it was? It wasn’t long before she'd trust you with the very best goods that came in, you were sosure and thrifty with them. You liked to cut out of whole cloth, and nobody could do it better than you. You said you could see your way then from the beginning ta the end; and you never failed in what you undertook. But she never gave you the old dresses that were to be re-made to rip up and look over, they vexed you 80. Shé brought them all to me. I would rather have them than the whole cloth; I was afraid of the responsibility when I handled it. I liked o take the old things and feel my way to the good that might be %ot out of them by the good that was left in them. And you and Miss Cumnor said it was witcheraft—the gretty suits I could get out of old goods. I liked to do it, Roxie. It was my genius you know. And it isn’t so hard for me to make out now, dear, though you think my life has been so badly cut up. . ; You never fairly understood the difference between us. How could you? For you always spoke ({our mind out plain, and I never could tell you much in words, I was so cowardly and so afraid of making you impatient. 1 wanted to tell you long ago how it was about Robert, and me, but I couldn’t. I knew all the time how disgusted you must be with me, and yet I couldn’t speak, not even that night when you warned me. But now you have come back and are so kind, and sit there crying for me, I want to tell you how it was. ‘ ‘

You know I had scarcely ever spoken to Robert while he was waiting on ou, or spoken to you about him. But {noticed him a great deal. I had a fi;eat syrapathy with you both in your ppiness. Evenix:igs when we came - from the shop and he joined you, I used to dro({: behind and watch you as you walked along. I was proud of - you; I thought you were so wellmatched, both so tall and handsome and full of life. Robert talked the most, but it was you who led him, and settled plans and opinions between you. And when the cloud came that I diin’t understand at first, and I saw your face getting more stern and moody every day, 1 was as much pained and troubled, Roxie, as if I had been your. mother. 1 was most sorry for you at - first, but little by little, as I gathered the truth I became even more sorry for him. You said you would not marry an unsteady man, even if he were Robert. 1 kmew it pained you to push him off, but you were right and firm to do | it, and you went your way strong and safe afterward. But he! he had not only lost you, but he was in danger of losing all. 1 could not help being most sorry for him. I never _%uestioned but that you were right, but Icould not get over the pity of it. It seerned such an ‘ungpeakable pity that one so bright and handspme and hopeful should be let g) into bad ways. My heart ached to think of it. . : ' For all the sorrowful feeling I car- ~ ried in my heart for him, I never thought it would fall to me to do anything for him. You know he hoped you would relent, and heused to haunt our way with that haggard face he wore in the first days after you parted from him. You would neverturn your head to give him one look. You were right, and yet it used to turn me faint almost with pity and regret to see you pass him sO. One hliht'you took to going home through the by-streets so

that you need not see him ;ifii.in, and you would not let me go with you. . That night Robert came up;and spoke to me. lfe said he felt I would be sorry forhim. His talk wasall about you, Roxie. He seemed to find comfort in praising you. He thought there was never such a strong, beautiful woman in the world as you, never another that he could so love and lean upon. At first I felt so strange with him I could only listen to him and. amswer him a lit.tljg, enough to show I -cared. But when he began to say that you had taken the wrong way with him, that you had taken away the spring of his energy in trying to overcome his fault, that he had nothing now to try for—nothing to look forward to—then 1 found tongue to taik to him. ‘< Why don’t you win her back?’ 1 said. ¢ You can doit. It's only to be manly and upright as you ‘were meant to be. If you would not drink again, Robert, and would keep away from bad companions, she wculd see the change in you so soon! She’s very clear-sighted, and in her heart I’'m sure she loves you. Why won’t you try to win her back?”’ ~ I spoke so fast and - earnestly, he lookego at me in surprise. But I did not gare, I was so sorry for him; I went on talking; I said more than I could repeat. All that was in my heart about him came out, and 1 could not say it without tears. From looking surprised he began to be moved and sobered. He said he did not know any human being cared as much for his salvation as I seemed to. He said I put new courage into him, and that he meant to try again. - When I thought it all over at home that night I wondered that I should have said so much to him. But it made me happy to have done it, and happy to think he would now win you back and that the pain and hardness between you would be ended, and things would be as I thought God meant them to be.

- You know that from that time Robert fell into the habit of joining me every night. He did tTke a real earnest start toward a better life. I could feel sure of it, and presently I wanted to see it. I asked Iyou one night to go home our way. You refused; and then I told you plainly I' wanted you to see Robert —that I thought; he had changed. You looked sharply /‘at me then, and I remember what you said: ‘ He will never change except as the weathercock does.. He’s weak; it's ingrained.” And you said that for yourself you'd not be such a fool as to see him again. e ] Presumptuous to judge him so? No, dear Roxie; that was your light and you saw it clearly. You were not wrong because 1 was led by a different way. But I could not help seeing that you were losing your tenderness for him, and I was so troubled about it that I begged Robert to write to you or try to see you. . : ~ He said he would waita little longer; -he did not believe you could trust him yet. : : g Every day I grew more uneasy, and urged it again. And at last he said plainly that he had given it up—about you—that he knew you could never trust him nor have patience with him. I could not deny it any more. When I thought of your face as you last spoke of him-I knew it was true. And even while I was sorrowfully thinking! about it he began to say other things. He said there was no one in the world from whom he vould hope for love, and trust, and patience, unless it was from me. He asked me if I did not know it. And when I looked -into my-own heart and thought it all over, I did know it. I could no more deny it than I could the other. e ;

You >thou%ht me weak and foolish to accept his love, Roxie. You did not know how full of awe and fear my heart was. The more glad I was that I could love him, thé less blind I was to all the dangers that hung over us both. I Wwas notso rash as to think that my weak band alone could avert them. There was only this, Roxie; it was the only human hand that was nerved to try. I knew in my heart that I did right. I knew you had ceased to feel pain in regard to Robert. I knew it was not jealousy that led you to give me that Warni‘n% when f'ou heard we were engaged. I would live to be a drunkard’s wife, you said. I knew it might be true, but it did not shake me tien; ‘and since it has come true, Roxie, if all were to be done over again 1 think I could not aet differently. 1 only want you to feel that my marrying him was not—as youthought then—just a blind surrender to what I knew was foolish and wrong. _ " I was better than you? Oh, no; my ‘'way was open when yours was barred; that was all. You needed to marIy a st;rongi perfect man like Adam Mayhew. You could work freely with him. But if I had married such an one, so great and self-sustained, I should not have lived freely. There's a strange cowardice in me, Roxije. I never dared use my life much except where I felt a very great need for it. Robert needed it.. ] :

You may know I was not heedless by this. I told Robert I would not dare enter into married life without claims on a strength greater than ours for help. 1 asked him if he had not such a faith in the gracious help of the Lord Jesus Christ as he was willing to confess before men. He was trve and earnest when he assented to that if ever a man was. We waited to be married till we were admitted to membershi;i'»Tl in the church. Roxie, you know when the halt and maimed were called into the feast they came just halt and maimed. Some of them might have stumbled and fallen before ever they could be led to their places at the table. They were to be made-whole some time, but they were not brought in whole. The Lord of the feast knew when each one’s turn would come and how he would do it. But he could not fiet to each one all at once. He had to ear with them as they were at. first. My poor Robert was maimed. - He was born weak where some are strong. The Lord knows. | . .

The first time that he fell after our marriage I was as wretched as you could have foretold. But I had been sick and he was out of work. I bastened to get better, and ghen he got better also.. The next year we got on much better than I hoped till that last night. et

Poor Robert! If oni{ he had not taken it so hard!—if fi y he had not gone away! If I coul on}( once have ;ai.lk?d it over with him and comforted m! ‘ He did not strike me so hard; it was not the blow that made me fall. I was weak, and staggered. 1 had the baby in my arms, and could not break my falling. It would not have hurt me if it hacF not been for the rocker of the chair: I fell upon it. It was that which hurt my back. ; . I know how it was with him;—it sobered him to see me fall; and in one minute he was full of remorse, When they told him I was coming to my senses and calling for him he fled away out of the house. It was shame and despair in his heart. 'He felt as if he had been a curse to me. They said he had deserted me because I was now belpless. That is false, Roxie. :Donot believe it. o

You do not? That is like you, so generous and just! Let me ‘tell you. I have had money sent me from some unknown person. Miss Cumnor does not encourage me to think it comes from Robert. She thinks it is sent by sume charitable person. She hopes he may never come back, and does not want me to think of him. But I know he sent the money. , You think so, too? O Roxie—then he is doing well somewhere, and thinking of me! 1f I might only see him. You think I could only be a helpless, discouraging burden to him, now that I may never walk again. And it ¢shard to think if he should come back he would still find melying here. Iwouldn't mind it at all if it were notfor his sake. And yet if he would only come back I know I could be something to him still. He would find I could be happy lying here—and Roxie—oh Roxie!—l never had before—néver before—such love, and courafe, and faith in my heart for him as 1 have now!

You say you think he will come back. I know he will some time; but it seems hard to wait. When I think of his sorrow and all his temptations, and think I might talk to him and comfort him, it seems hard to wait. It is a whole year, Roxie! Thipk,' if you had been separated from your husband a whole year, while you had been ill and both of you had been in sorrow! : You think he will come back soon? Roxie, you know something about him! He has been to South America on one of .your husband’s vessels. He has been doing well. It was he who sent me the money. Oh, Roxie, tell him I want to see him. Tell him I must see him!- i : Could I bear to see him now? Then he is here! Call him quick, Roxie! That is 2.8 step I hear! Oh, Robert! Robert!—M. E. Benneit, in Sunday Afternoon.

. An Absurd Law of Russia. A GREAT many persons have an idea that it is unlawful to touch or attempt to aid a dead or dying man, and that the first duty is to notify some official. Lives have been sacrificed under this delusion. The first duty is to render every possible aid and then promptly to make the facts known to the authorities. The contrary idea has been obtained from the laws of other Nations, which are as absurd as they are inhuman. - Referring to the law of Russia in this respect an Eastern exchange says: : ‘ Among the most extraordinary of the tyrannical regulations of the Russian police is one which strictly forbids anyone to touch a dead or dying man without the direct sanction of the police. In consequence of this arbitrary enactment, it is no uncommon thing to see a man lying bleeding and helpless from a severg' fall, in the streets of Moscow or St Petersburg, without anyone daring to assist him. To what an extent this curious tyranny is carried may be judged from a single instance. An English gentleman residing at Peterhof, a coast town, about sixteen miles from St. - Petersburg, one morning.found his Russian groom hanging by the neck in the stable, and cut him down at once, just in time to save his life. The next day he received a visit from the local Inspector of Police, who, far from commending his prompt humanity, vehemently abused gim for daring to transgress the law. The Englishman heard him to the end without a word, and then said quietly, ‘Well, Mr. lnsgq,ctor, I'm extrerme{y sorry to have done anything, but I'll make all the amends in my power. If I find you hanfing anywhere, I pledg: you my honor I won’t cut you down.’”’ —Chicago Inter-Ocean. . |

What the Girls Should Learn. A VERY importantpart of a girl's éducation seems to be entirgly ignored by many mothers, who are otherwise particular in regard to the instruction of those who are destined to be the future rulers of the household. Very few girls, indeed, are taught the science of cookery, although it ought to be considered a most essential branch of evéry girl’s education. In after yearsit may not be necessaryfor her to do this work herself, but, although she may be blessed with abundance of means, and therefore can employ professional cooks, she will often find occasion to instruct her attendants. If she is ignorant of this useful scienee, she cannot oven tell her servants how she wishes her food prepared, much less show them how to do it by practical illustratian. She and her family must therefore be in & great measure dependent upon domestics, and often compelled to endure .their ignorance and insoi:nice rather than be a few days without eip. . Ifo'w different is the case when the mistress of the house is competent not only to:show how every household duty should be performed, but to do it herself. The cook, presuming upon her importance and tge difliclfity of filling her place, becomes impertinent; but the first insubordination of this kind is gromply suppressed by the competent ousewife. Aware of her ability to enter the kitchen and perform its duties even more rapidly and skillfully than her hired assistant, she is not dependent upon the Yrofessional cook, and her absence will occasion but a slight and temporary inconvenience. l'l‘herefore, " the’ reber{lious gervant is

promptly and emphatically informed: that insubordination will not be endured, and that if she iunwilling to be polite, cheerful and obedient, her room will be better appreciated than her company. : ~ 'The knowledge of cookery which this housewife possesses, and which she probably was taught by her wise-moth-er, enables her tobe self-reliant. Such housewives always have good servants, for incompetent ones will notsuit them. A poor servant may enter their service, but unless they manifest an aptitude and willingness to learn, they are not kept long by the.careful and energetic housekeeper. : As a rule it will generally be found that the mistress who is constantly complaining of her domestics, and her inability to secure and retain eompetent servants, is either a poor housekeeper herself or a woman whose constant grumblings drive good servants away. A mistress who insists upon system and order in the management of her house, lightens her servants’ duties, and their labor is pleasant compared with that of the house where everything 'is confusion and disorder. The good housekeeper is usually the lady whose mother taught her the importance of regularity, cleanliness and economy in all household duties; she has learned how all such work should be done, and also learned how to do it herself. She is a prize to her husband and her family; for she can appreciate a good dinner, and knows how te cook one.—N. Y. ! Weekly.

How a Poor Miner ‘¢ Sold’’ His Foreg i m&n. For many years past a belief has been prevalent on the Comstock that in early days a large quantity of bullion was buried by stage-robbers in this vicinity, and that the robbers were killed before they had an opportunity to exbume the plant. This rvmor was scouted by the general public as being on a par with the story of Capt. Kidd's buried treasure, but a few old-timers have placed more confidence in the report than they cared to have known, and’ kept their eyes open for surface indications. Thereport was confirmed four weeks ago in a very singular manner by a laborer in the Sutro Tunnel, named Daniel Connors. He met John Blewett, foreman, one afternoon in the tunnel, and having first exacted a promise of secrecy from him, exhibited a small bar of bullion about six inches long: remarking at the same time: “ That looks pretty solid, doesa’t it?”’ to which Mr. Blewett responded that if the Court knew herself, and he believed she did, it was a pretty solid exhibit in a small compass. : : ‘“There’s lots more where that came from,” said Connors, with a knowing wink; “I found that buried in the ground, and there’s a big gile of it.” ~ Mr. Blewett became suduenly interested. Would Mr. Connors go out of the tunnel with him and take a drink? Mr. Connors had no objection, and the mutual health of both parties was drowned in eight fingers of Sutro whisky, of the same quality as that contained in the quart that killed a man a few weeks ago. Mr. Bleweit expressed his appreciation of Mr. Connors as a workman. He had always found him to be a faithful, industrious and competent man. If it was ever in' his power—(and here he threw out certain dark hints concerning sub-drains, lateral drifts and flooded mines, each hint punctuated with a mysterious wink)—if ever it should be in his power—a certain friend of his, whom he did not care to mention at present for reasons of delicacy (another mysterious wink) —might obtain the lucrative position of assistant foreman over five hundred men. Take another, Mr. Connors? .. Mr. Connors took. The chink of glasses was succeeded by a gurgling sound, and there was silence for a brief interval. Both men left the saloon arm-in arm, and the next day Mr. Connors slunk into the back room of the little saloon, with a heavybundle under hig arm wrapped up in canvas. Shortly afterward Mr. Blewett, with his hat pulled down over his eyes after the manner of a poker sharg, and with an extremely guilty look, darted in. The. conversation that ensued was carried on in whispers. The mysterious parcel was unraveled, and it proved to be a large bar of bullion of the value of $1,284.27, as shown by the stamps. Connors was suffering from a disease which made it necessary for him to go to San Francisco for medical attendance. He would leave the bar in care of his friend Blewett until he returned, when they would both proceed .to the hiding-place of the treasure in Flowery fiistrict and divide . the spoil. Would Mr. Blewett advance him $lOO to help pay his expenses? it “}L , ‘certainly, my dear boy.”’ Mr. (%nmors went to San Francisco. He became so sick that he could not write. M. Blewett became nervous. He gave the bar of bullion; to John Cassidy to have it assayed.' The assayer’s certificate reads as follows: Babbittthetal o 0.0 S iide s 00 QUiCKBIIVer. ... coevnree iniininniiiiiaeiinniin 1 * Mobal.,oveooisoecrniniosneananiiio. .o 100 Mr. Blewett has had three fights and has not heard from Connors yet.— Virginia (Nev.) Chronicle.. : &

—At the Cape of Good Hope, near Table Mountain, the clouds come down very low now and then without dropping in rain. At such a time, if a traveler should go under a tree for shelter from the threateninfr storm, he would find himself in a drenching shower, while out in the opening, away from any tree or shrub, everythinfi would be as dry as a bone! The clou or mist is' rather warmer than the leaves, you see, and so, when it touches them, it changes into clinfiin% drops, which lool':,-%ike dew. ¥resh drops keef forming; they run together; and, at length, the water dris):' off: the leaves like rain. And this process goes on until the clouds lift and the flz‘comes out again.— St. Nicholas for Y. b

—An acre ‘of bananas will produce as. much food for a man as twentyfive acres of wheat, and thlsy peel to the people for protection.—N. 0. Ficayme. { » 3 3

. , ¥ X b : Youths’ Department. —_—_— - GOING TO SLEEP. CrEEP! peep! S Baby is guing to sleep! Lulled by the soft-noted rong of a bird, ; Hearing %h‘e leaves by the summer air stirred, Dreamily list ning to humming of flies, : Drowsily shumng his violet eyes, : Wondering, won erm% which would be best, A baby awake, or a baby at rest; ot Gently cooing and singing, until : ! Arms that were restless are almost still— ° ; Creep! peep! : Baby is go‘x’ng topsleep! ‘ v - QOreep! peep! Baby is going to sleep! / Laid on his downy white pillow to rest— Looking lLike rose leaf en lily’s pure breast— Coaxing the down-drooping eyelids to wait, Smiling, as cherub migat smile to his mate— Wat&fi:g the sunlight stream through the door, Stretching to catch, till he sees it no more And the small hands drop into motionless grace, And a great hush falls on the beautiful face, And we see, and we see, witn a love most deeg, A child that is kissed by the * Angel of Sleep’'— : - COreep! peep! ‘ Baby is tast asléep! ; —M7rs. L, C. Whiton, in Wide-Awake,

- JERRY’S BABY ELEPHANT. JERRY lived with his grandmother in a little cottage two or three miles from the nearest town, and when it was announced, one day, that a menagerie soon would visit the town, Jerry’s grandmother gave him leave to go and see the show. e When all the animals had been exhibited, and people began to leave the tent, Jerry, whose eyes had never wandered long from the elephant, followed close behind him, watching the ponderous legs on which the gray skin wrinkled so curiously, as he was led by his keeper into another tent, where food and a little liberty were given to a few of the animals, during the two hours intervening between this and the evening exhibition. Some packingboxes and a pile of coarse, woolen blankets at one side of the tent caught Jerry’s eye, and he seated himself upon them, thinkin% that he could then watch this wonderful elephant without being in anybody’s way. Jerry was very tired, and the smafi eyes of the big elephant winked so drowsily beneath the monstrous flapping ears, that, while he watched him, he, too, began to doze; and then it was that he saw a little baby elephant, which he had not noticed before, standing near him, and again he thought, ‘“ Oh! what a happy boy I should beit I could have an elephant of my own! If now the keeper would give me this littie elephant!”’ - e e

4 Why, surely, could it be true? there came the keeper, leading up to him this beautiful baby elephant; and as he looked, he saw a card around its neck, like one his teacher had lately given him at school, and these words stood out in black letters, ¢« Jerry Jarvis’ elephant.” ; Jerry had never felt so happy in his life; he took the little creature by the ear and led it out of the tent to the hi%h road. At first he had thought the baby elephant no greater than a Newfoundland dog; but now it seemed as lar%e as an ox. He hurried homeward as fast as he could make the little creature go, and soon reached the cottage. He threw open the door, and showed the elephantinto the kitchen, exclaiming with ea%lerness, ¢.Oh, grandma! see! see! 1 have had such a present!”’ : | ‘“Goodness gracious!”’ exclaimed the astonished grandmother. ¢‘A present, indeed! Wgha.t is the creature? Why did you bring it into the house?”’ : “Oh, dear grandma! please don’t scold! It's a baby elephant, and I could not leave it out-doors to-night, for it might take cold; please let it stay in the kitchen this one night, and tomorrow I will get some boards and a carpenter, and build a shed for it behi;gfthe house.” ‘ ; .

‘¢ Well, if this is a young one, what will it come to in a few months more?”’ said the old lady, shaking her head in sad perplexitg. ‘¢ See! the tusks do not show yet, and I have read that they begin to grow when an elephant is six months old.” - bl *#¢lt will make our fortune by and by,” said Jerry, in- a deprecating tone. I shall make it very fond of me and’ teach it tricks, and go round the country exhibiting it.” Grandmother was nat as much. pleased at this prospect as Jerry was, but said, good-humoredly: - : ““Well, well, the ‘little creature’ may sleep here to-night if the four walls of the kitchen are large enough to hold him; but supper is waiting.’ : Jerry’s sleep that night must have been as long as Rip Van Winkle’s, or élse there was never an elephant like this in the world before! For as soon as he awoke, he dressed himself hastily and ran to the kitchen to see if his pet were still there safe and well; he threw open the door, but stopped upon the threshold in amazement; at the same instant his grandmother opened the door from her little bedroom, and then she started back, and for a minute the two stood staring at each other, and at the monstrous creature in the kitchen. It was indeed wonderful that. the baby elephant could have Frown so much in one night! it quite filled up the whole of the little kitchen; it would' not have been possible for it to turn round! its tusks were half a yard long, and the great head with the enormous flaégging ears was right in front of the bedroom door, confronting the poor frightened woman who stood there in dismay. ¢ This is a ?retty state of things,” she 'said at last, vpartl} “closing her door, and feeping out atJerry. “%Vha.t in the world are we to do? 1 cannot leave my room, and we shall have no breakfast; and the creaturehaskept me awake the whole night long, knocking about here! I expected every moment he would knock my door down, or get into the cupboard and smash all ,%h'e dishes.”’ sl Bl

Poor Jerry! The elephant was so enormous now, that he_real? felt afraid to go near it; but he would not let his %rrandnzlmther see this, émé:e Bsaid, bl('lave- : . “lam very sorry, dear grandma, gut don’t bqr¥ri htesx'led. i ’l{fism’s a piece of bed-cord %n the attic, and I'll run and bring #t and tie it round his neck, and then I'll lead him right into the woods and fasten him to a tree.” Jerry found the cord, and crawling lin. between the animal’'s legs (for the

‘doorsway was quite blocked unl-h,e afproacheg its-head. Baut, alas! he could not reach the huge neck; then he tried to wind the cord round the trunk, but ‘the elephant wound its trunk around ‘him instead, lifted him up and bumped him against the ceiling -until the Eo .. cried out with pain, and his gra.nd! mother was frantic with terror and anxiety. But the elephant seemed to be only amusing himself, and soon laid - Jerry quietly down in the corner of the TOOM. i i : . ¢¢ This will never do,” gasped Jerry, as soon as he could spe%k.Pe“l c;;'y”t put the rope on, and he—he—looks as if he were waiting to toss me up again if I moved at all!’ * Jerry was trembling all over now, and his teeth chattered. s Se i - : ‘“Grandmother,)’ hesaid, ¢ don’t you think if you were to throw me a doughnut and I could give it to him,4t might make him like me? They never do eat up boys, do they?” : “Oh,; [ don’t know, I’m sure!” cried the old lady, piteously. ¢ Only look! The creature is much too large to go through the ‘door now, and 1 shall stan;’v,e to.death here, for I can’t get out S

Jerry had crawled into the p_anng, and before eating anything himself, he cut a slice of bread and got some doughnuts, which he stuck upon a fork one at a time; then, by standing on a chair and holding the fork in the tongs, which chanced to be within his reach, he managed to Eass them to his grandmother over the head of the elephanti; ¢ = Bt ‘I think,” said she, “Kou‘d better bring all the things from the pantry into my room, and we’ll just stay there until to-morrow morning!"’ ‘ This Jerry did, darting past theelephant whenever its attention seemed fixed on something else. Then when these necessary arrangements were all, made, the grandmother took her knitting work, and Jerry jumped in and out of her bedroom window, but he returned every little while to watch the wonderful growth of his elephant. Late in the afternoon, when, for the fiftieth time, the boy opened the bedroom door. to take a peep at him, he found himself unable to shut it, for Mr. Elephant boldly stuck his head into the room, moving it up and down and from side to side in a way that was frightful to.see. The door would not admit the shoulders of the animal; but though Jerry and his grandmother retreated to the bed ‘in'the farther corner of the room, he could almost reach them with hislou%-trunk, which' he lashed about furiously. And oh! what tusks the creature had! Those Jerry had seen on the mammoth, Sultan at the menagerie the- day before were small compared to these, and they were growing larger every hour. The :position of the elephant brought its head just in front of the chimney in the littie bedroom; and in his uneasy movements, he at last thrust these formidable tusks through the vpen fire-place and up the chimney. This done, he seemed unable to withdraw them, although he made vigordus efforts for a few minutes, shaking the little house until it seemed as if it would tumble down; butatlast,. tired of such exercise, he stood quite still; and the poor. frightened folk who were watching him breathed freely again. - - ; ‘“That is a. most fortunat&thin%i” said the old lady, in great glee. ¢ He is fastened securely now, and we can have a %;)od night's sleep.” And she really laughed to think the clever elephant should have so outwitted himself.

But, dear me! to sleep was impossible! Finding that he could not move his head, the e%ephant grew very angry, and began dancing about on his great feet, pressing with his ponderous weight against the thin partition until it gave way, and he advanced into the bedroom as far as its small size would allow him, overturnix(lig the bedstead, and tumbling Jerry and his grandmother upon the floor behind it, where, keeping it as-a sort of barricade between them, they knelt in darkness, wondering what would come next. At last, just as day was breaking, making the little room light enough for them to see the outline of the great dusky figure, the elephant made one more desperate effort to free his head from the chimney, hurling his whole ‘weight against the outer wall of the house, when, dreadful to relate! the little dwelling, whose strength had been so severely tried, went to pieces in a minute! and Jerry and his grandmother rolled out upon the grass. They were too much aCcusbome_g to wonderful‘thin%:s to be ‘much frightened, and picked themselves up just in season to see a monstrous figure, black and fright--ful in the dim light, running off into the woods, waving the chimney high in the air, and knocking it against the tree-tops. Jerry laughed at the droll sight, and was saying somethini about an elephant with ‘a brick, when he turned and saw his grandmother sittin on the ground in %far ruffled cap a.nfi short gown, crying mournfully, as she look upon the ruins of their pretty house. Then he felt that they were homeless now, and began to sob and oryalso. e - #¢ Why, Jerry!”’ said a cheery voice; ‘““don’t cry! 1 saw you roll off the box, but I did not thinki it had hurt yeu. Did %)u strike on your head®” . _** Why, Charley Newton, is that you? Where am I’ said Jerry, springing up and looking about. . E There he was-in the tent still. He could hardly believe it! All the men and animals had left it; - ¢ for,” said Charley, ‘it is almost time for the evening show, and I have hunted everywhere for you! What have you ¢ Charley,” said Jerry in reply, ¢ did Iv,;cm ever see an elephant with a brick head?® '~ - : Al E " “4N0,” said Charley, laughing; *‘ but I have seen one muge allg-:oi: gvood in - Noah’s Ark.” i : - *But mine was alive,’’ said Jerry; ‘¢ it was ‘aB big as this wnole tent, and such a time as grandmother and I bad' with it! I shall never wish again that I could have an elephant of my own, I oan tell you! We must hurry home Boy, for grandmother will bs fright. ened about me. Come quick! and I'll tell you all about it on the way. s Mary Handerson, in St. Nicholas.