Nappanee Advance-News, Volume 6, Number 23, Nappanee, Elkhart County, 4 September 1884 — Page 3

ffappantt jgSttMg Jnra • I /nyptm DISCONTSNT. J. I aUa* to the garden wall Outside, where the grasaes grow; Where the tall weeds Baunt in the Mh Aad the yellow mulleins blow. The dock and the thistle crowd Close to my shrinking feet, ‘syaßßwrai'sr The rode wind* toes my hair. The wild raioa beat me dawn. The wayside dost lies white And thiok on my lea'y crown. I mm not keep my robee . Troat wanton Haters (na And the veriest bettor dares TO stop and taze at me. Bometimee I climb and oUmb To the top of the tardea wall. And 1 see her where she stands. Stately and hir and tall—- . Mr sister, the red, red Rose, My sister, the royal one, that blows What woifder that she is fair* What wonder that she is sweet? The treasures of earth and air Us at her dainty feet; The choicest fare is hers. Her can to brimmed with wine; Rich are her emerald robes, And her had to soit ana Una. She need not Uft her head i. Bren to sip the dew; Ho rode touch makes her shrink The whole loot summer through. Her servants do her will; _They come at her beck and oall. Oh. rare is life In my lady's bowers Inane of the garden wall! • IL THJC GABPtft BOSE. The rarden path runs east. And the tsrden path runs west; There’s n tree by the tsrden tale, Ands Uttle bird in a nest. It slugs and sings and sings! Does the bird. I wonder, know j How, over the garden wall. > i The bright days come and go? The garden path runs north, | And the garden path runs south; The brown bee hums in the sun. And kisses the lily's mouth: But it nies away ere long To the birch tree, daik and tall. What do you Hod, O brown bee. Over the garden wall? With ruff and farthingale. Under the gardeners eye. In tr.mmeet guise lstand— Oh, who so fine as 1? But even the light wind knows That it may not p’ay with me, Nor tou„-h my beautiful Its With a wild caress and free. , Oh, straight is the garden path, / And smooth to the garden bed, / Where never an idl > weed < . \_ Dases lift its careless head. But-1 know outside the wall They gather, a merry throng: They dance and gutter and slug. And I listen all day long. The Brier Roee swings outside: Sometimes she c imbs so high I can see her sweet pink face A. ainst the blue of the sky. What wonder that she is fair. Whom no strait bonds enthrall? Oh. rare to life to the Brier Rose, Outside of the garden wall? •slhito tl & oorr. in Harper’s Magazine.

AUftT ABBY*S LITTLE ROMANCE. In hunting up my friends at Wellsmarch. I had occasion to inquire my way o' an old woman digging potatoes in a weedy little paiteh by the roadside. She looked up as 1 spoke, and leaned on her hoe, tall and gaunt and somewhat grim, bat with a singularly lucid and kindly expression in her large gray eyea. She was coarsely dad. her thin, gray hair, cut short, was covered by a man’s straw hat, and she had the muscular brown hands of a man. Yet, when she paused in her potato digging to answer my questions, it was with an air of quiet intelligence and a simple grace of utterance hardly to have been expected from one of her sex engaged in so coarse an occupation. Having spoken, she stooped to pick up and pat into a peck basket the potatoes her hoe had uncovered, and I rode on. but coold not forbear looking back and watching her as she rose up with her light burden and walked away, across the weedy patch, towards the door of a lonely little house nearby. The sun hail gone down, heavy shadows fell across tte fields from wooded hills beyoud, the night crickets had struck up their melancholy notes, and in the aspect of the woman entering her solitary door, at that hour, there was something so sad that it made my heart ache. The picture haunted me, and on reaching my friend's house I spoke of it. “I was directed,” I said, “by the loneliest old creature, working in the loneliest potato-patch, and living in the loneliest little old hoose I ever saw!” “Ah.” said my host, with a look of interest, “you have seen Aunt Abby! She is quite an extraordiuarv character; and, little as yon would think it, to see her digging potato’s for to-mor-row’s breakfast, she is a real heroine—the heroine of a genuine romance.” He told me something of her story, which excited still further my curiosity and sympathy, and I expressed a desire to make her acquaintance. ’That could be easily managed, he said; and, driving me about the country the next day, he took me to her house. We found her trimming a bed of oldfashioned flowers at her door; and as he drew np to the gate and spoke to her she came towards us with a sprig of mignonette in her coarse brown hand. “Aunt Abby,” said my companion, •‘here’s a friend of mine I want you to know.” And he proceeded to introduce me in a way which the most modest audio: s Os books get accustomed to and learn to endure without blushing. “I have heard of you,” she said, giv-. ing my hand a cordial grasp, and looking into my eyes with an earnest, almost ardent, expression. “Come in. won’t you? It’s a longtime”— turainato my friend—“since you have made me a call.”

He excused himself, but said that I sould go in if I chose, and wait till he returned for me, after transacting a litJo business which he had in view. The arrangement suited me admirably, and is she repeated her invitation I alighted snd entered the gate. “I hear that you live quite alone dcre,”! remarked, as she preceded me dong the narrow grassy path towards he door. “Alone? Dear mo. no!” she replied, cheerfully, turning to face me in the nidst of her little flower garden. ‘Here are some of my companions,” >nd she pointed out' the pinks and jansies and phlox and hollyhoeks, vhich grow in an almost wild state, dong with fennel and caraway and ago, in the tangled but well-weeded •eds. “But I have other and better ompanions than these. With flowers *nd sunshine and grass and trees and tooks, and one's own thoughts, how can .body be alone?” “I quoted Emerson’s saying: “If a tan would be alone, let him look at the tars.” “Why, bless the good man!” she said, •when I look at the stars I am someJmes least alone! It seems as it they wrought the hosts of Heaven near to me. ■iut come in, come in.” She ushered me into a very plain but eat little sitting-room, with a rag carset (probably of her own braiding) on he floor, a few books on hanging helves, and on the walls some cheap rints which I fear would have made he apostle of modern culture smile. “Here are more of my companions, nd some of tbo best,” she said, hnndlg mo a scrap-book from the little ide-table, after giving me a seat in her tishioned arm-chair. “ Some of them ;ou know,” she added, with a smile crhich lighted up her brown features tritli beaut ful benignity. It oould have ha dly been by aooident StUopM ! Rtf

hands at a place when my eye fell upon n little scrap es verses which I knew indeed. “I don’t know how to compliment an author,” she said, seating herself on a chintz-covered lounge before me, “but I am glad of an opportunity to tell you that that poem has been a great comfort to me, a very great comfort. I cut it from a newspaper a few years ago, and I have read It over and over again until I know It by heart, I love to repeat it to myself when I am lying awake nights and listening to the -nun on the root” Her eyes glistened as she spoke. 1 was deeply touched; the thought of having written a few words which had afforded solace to this lonely* creature made me humbly grateful. My vanity was not in the least moved, ana I can relate the circumstance without vanity now; for, alas, my little piece pasted on a page with others which she seemed to regard as equally precious, although they were not literature, any more than the sentimental prints on the wall were art. It was evident that she viewed poems and pictures, not with a cultivated or critioal eye, but wholly from a spiritual and sympathetic attitude of mind; prizing what appealed to her emotional ana especially to her religious nature, without being much disturbed by weak lines, bad rhymes and other imperfections. How some of my {esthetic friends would have scorned to see their verses included in snch a scrap-book! Bat. after all, there is something in life better than culture; and 1 would not for anything have said a word to lessen the satisfaction old Aunt Abby found in the feeblest of that .trash. My own little piece had given me a key to her heart, and I soon found it easy to lead her to speak of her early life. “I have heard something of yonr history,” I said, and it makes me wonder if yon have never regretted the very great sacrifices yon once made.” Her large, gray, eyes beamed upon me mistily. “I have asked myself the same qnestion many times. For it was a sacrifice!” she said, tremblingly. “Bat the answer deep down in my heart is always no. We most live according to onr light. I lived according to mine. I could not do differently then; 1 couldn’t do differently now, if the thing was to do over.” “I hear that he was, in many respects, a worthy man,” I said, “to'lead her on. And tell me frankly, Aunt Abby, were yon not very strongly attached to each.other?” “There was only one thing in heaven and earth that I loved better than I loved Aaron Deems!’’ she answered, with emotion. “Bat there were other things that he loved better than he loved mg. Too many! too many!” “What were they?” 1 asked. “His ease and his pride and his worldly possessions. Yet, as yon say, he was a worthy man. Few people blamed him, but a great many blamed me. * That was what made it so hard for me to do as I did. My friends called me foolish and overscrupulous; while he acted as so many other men would have acted in his place.” She wiped her eyes and resumed, in answer to my questions: “We were engaged, and were to be married in a few weeks, and I believe .there never was a young couple with happier prospects, until he came to me one evening and told me of an exciting event. He had a rich uncle 'who was known to have acquired much of his property dishonestly; he had died suddenly, leaving everything to Aaron, and Aaron seemed quite set up by his good fortune.

“ • But, Aaron ’ I said, • how can it be a goo 1 fortune to you, since it is a bad ortune, got in a ba l way, as 1 have heard you say yourself? All that property, or at least a large part of it, belongs to the family of his dead partner; the widow and children he defrauded. after he got the business into his hands.’ “‘I don’t know how much there is in all that,’ sad Aaron. •Stories get exaggerated, and uncle had his enemies!’ “ ‘ But you were not his enemy,’ I said; ‘and I have had tie story kom your own lips. You always condemned that transaction; and I never heard you speak of him with any respect. 1 hope, sad I, ‘you are not going to let the fact that he has made yon his heir change your ideas of right and wrong. ’ n , v ' “He langhed in a way I couldn’t like, ' •! have Uoyleas on the subject,’ he said. ‘All I know is, the property is mine now.’ “ ‘-But you can’t take it and enjoy it,’ I said. “ ‘Why not?’ was his answer, in a tone that astonished and grieved me. T never heard that my nnele did anything illegal; the property is lawfully mine.’ “ ‘Why, Aaron!’ I remonstrated, *1 have heard you say yourself that he was shrewd enough to keep clear of the law, but does that make his wickedness any less wicked? And whatif the property is lawfully yours, if it is not yours by absolute right, can yon accept it?’ “What I said disturbed him; and I could see that a dark shadow was coming between us—the first that bad over crossed our path. Ho argued that it wasn’t for ns to inquire too closely into his moral right to the property, since nobody could say that his hands had been stained in the getting of it; while I maintained that it was his duty to find out just how far thq widow and orphans had ■ been wronged, and niake restitution out of his uncle’s wealth. •* ‘Good heavens! Abbv,’ said he, according to what folks say, it would, take the bulk of tho estate.* “ ‘Lot it take the bulk of it.’ 1 said; •let it take every cent! You don’t want a dollar of money, no matter how you come by it, that belongs to anybody else.’ “ ‘No,’ he said, ‘if it’s a claim anybody can prove; but I guess if every one was to teas particular as to the way their estate, Teal and personal, was come by, from generation to generation, few would keep what they’ve got very long. I honor your principles, Abby; but, don’t you see, carried out as you would have them, they are utterly absurd?’ “•Idon’t see it,’ I replied. *On the contrary, 1 believe there is a rule of absolute right, and we ought to live by it.’ “So we argued until he grew very much irritated and got up to go. “ ‘I don’t sen the thing as you do,’ he said, ‘and can’t.’ ‘ “ ‘I am aorn?,’ I said, ‘for it is very plain to me. If you can take and enjoy property that you know belongs to othem yon can do what I never can! never, Aaron Deems!’ “He stood before me, looking pale and troubled. *Can’t yon look at it as I do—not even for my sake?’ he asked? “ ‘Not even for yonr skke, Aaron!’ t said, though my heart was ready to break. ‘But don't let ns talk of it any more to-night; I am sure you will think as T do when you have had time to reflect. “‘I hope—l am sure—we shall come to think alike in so important a matter,’ he said; ‘for I couldn’t bear to be separated Trom you, Abby!’ " ‘Oh, we can’t be separated, Aaron,’ I said, and effing to him with all my heart. But there was a coldness in his good-bye, and I felt that awful shadow between us after ho was gone. I couldn't endure that the man I loved should take, sacli views of right aad wroug, even for a moment, S“W ell, we bad many talks on tbs subot alter that; and the more w# talked wWw and bearUr tfei iMfew

grew. He couldn’t give np any part of what waa left him by his uncle'; no, not even for me! And I couldn’t give up the light I walked by; no, not even for him! I couldn’t prevent his accepting the frnits of his uncle's dishonesty; and. if I married him I would be a partaker in the wrong. So it came to this. “ ‘Aaron, I said to him one night, *if sou are determined, then we must part. can’t share in any advantage obtained through yonr ancle’s wrong-doing; as I should have to, by becoming yonr wife.’ •“Then you don’t love me,’ he said, and pleaded with me to take back those hard words. “ ‘Aaron,’ I said, *1 would take them back if I could, for I feel that I am giving np all the world when 1 give you up. But I can not give np the spirit of righteousness in my own soul. Compared with that, O Aaron,’ I said, ‘how little seems that which I ask you to give np, not for me only, but for your own conscience and life.’ “He was all of a tremble as he took my hand. ‘Abby,’ said he, ‘you are the noblest girl I ever saw, and I don’t know but you are right. All I know is, I am not up to the sacrifice that seems so easy to you. So I suppose we must part.”' “And so we parted. I never,” Aunt Abby went on, “never can forget the night that followed! I was torn with anguish; I was tempted terribly. It seemed to me that I was giving up all that was worth living for. I was young and not bad-looking, fond of society and all beautiful things. I knew the value of money; L too, would have been pleased with a life of ease and enjoyment. But all that was nothing to my attachment to him. How coufcf I give him up? “‘Why should you?’ something whispered. ‘Why can't you do what almost any body else would in your place, without any such silly scruples? Yon can do good with the money, and so atone for any sin there may be in accepting it. Don’t throw away your happiness for an idea.’ “On the other hand, a clear, deep voice said: ‘Walk by the light that is given you.’ “Why am 1 telling you all this?” she suddenly interrupted herself. “Ah, sir, how you have lrought the past back to me by a little sympathy! All this happened thirty-six years ago, but it seems like yesterday. How well I remember the morning when Aaron brought his bride into church—the bride who had taken my place! The sight would have killed' me, if all my pnde and selfishness had not been dead already. i “I had other offers after that, but none I could accept. Folks called me notional. May be I was. All I can say is, I walked by the light that was given me. That led me more and more out of the world and its ways, until, twenty years ago, I settled down in this little house that -appears to you so lonely. Here I have lived ever since, except for a few weeks every winter, when I visit friends who would gladly keep me with them all the time. But, strange as it may seem, I am never so happy as when I come back here to my hermitage—to my birds and flowers and books, and my own thoughts. “Aaron? Oh, yes, he lived aud was prospered in a sense. He had a handsome and fashionable wife, and he grew richer still by some transactions which some said were too much like his uncle's. But I don t condemn him; He may have walked by his light, as iS walked by mine. I only know our walks did not lie together. ‘•And hare I never regretted the sacrifice I made? Sometimes when I have looked upon myself, living alone in poverty, with these hands hardened by toil, and without the daily affection which the heart craves, I have wondered and said to myself: ‘Abby, is it all a dream? Wouldn’t that other life have been better for you?’ But something savs: ‘No; you couldn’t have chosen diflferenth'.’ Every life has its sorrows and heart aches; but there is no loneliness like that of a soul that has lost its rectitude, and grieved away the Spirit. “On the whole,” she added, cheerfully, “I am very well off here. Notional as folks think me, my neighbors are very kind; they come and see me, and lend me books; every winter they bring me fire-wood, and every spring they plant my little patch to corn and beans and potatoes. Oh!” she exclaimed, grasping my band, as I rose to take leave of ner, seeing my friend drive np at the gate, “I sometimes think there isn’t another woman in all the world so blessed as I!” As 1 rode away with my friend I onoe more looked back at the little house, which did not seem so lonesome to me now, as I thought of it peopled with high and holy thoughts, and filled with the presence of that heroic woman, to whom a great light had been given, with courage and strength to. live by that light— J. T. Trowbridge, tn Con-, gregationalist.

London “Uncles.” There are in London dose npon three thousand pnvrn-snops, and the fact that all of these do a thriving trade from nine o’clock, in the morning until seven in the eveningjells the tale of the extreme poverty of a large section of the population of this great city With no uncertain voice. I have recently visited a number of pawn-shops of all kinds, from the palatial establishment of the Messrs. Attenborough, at the corner of Fleet street and Chancery lane, to a grimy, dark, little hutch of a place in the purlieus of Shoreditch. From the result of my of the London pawnbrokers it is safe to assume that on an average at least one hundred 'pledges are taken in d&ilv at every one of these establishments. " This estimate is. no doubt, below the actual facts, as at several large establishments 1 was informed that on a busy day from one thousand to fifteen hundred customers are often accommodated. However, basing my calculations on the above estimate, it seemed startling to find that six hundred thousand people are compelled to obtain small or large advances every day on dress, jewelry and household goods. The amount of capital embarked in this busines in London is enormous. The Messrs. Attenborough, who have half a dozen shops in different parts of the eity. have at least £500,000 embarked in their business. They are immensely wealthy, and the present generation are all men of large wealth, landed estates, and two of them are also members of the liberal professions. These gentlemen, with the exception of two member* es the family, do not take any active part in the business. The Attenboroughs will lend money on anything. The family diamonds of half the peerage have been at one time or another in their keep ng. They will not refuse to advance money on a carriage and a pair of horses, but the borrower will have to pay for the keep of tho animals and the storage of the vehicle until ho redeems the pledge. The firm I speak of, however, do nine-tenths of their business in jewelry, and if they know the parties seeking, the advance to be respectable and trustworthy they will lend within a very little of the aetual valne of the articles offered- The interest the pawnbrokers here are allowed by law to charge is twenty per cent., and they always take care not to lend more than the artiole will fetch if it comes to be sold by auction. Moreover, a large proportion of the articles pawned are redeemed within a few days, and as no matter how short a time the loan is made for, a month’s Interest Is charged, it is evident that the business of a pawnbroker to an uncom. gSfrJEffig l * m

HOSE, FABXAHD GARDEN. —ls the soil of the garden is clayey, a coat of sand mixed in will help it; If it be sandy, day or sediment from ditches and water-courses will be found beneficial.—Chicago Times. —A gardener recommends tying newspapers about celery to bleach it. He finds that in this manner he can bleach celery better, easier and cheaper than by earthing up.— N. Y. Times. —The little Breton sheep takes its name from the part of France In which it is most raised. It is not much, if any, larger than a png dog; is aflectionate, and as great a pet as Mary’s little lamb in its tenderest days. —Beeswax and salt will make vour rnsty flatirons as clean and smoolli as glass, lie a lump of wax in a rag and keep it for that purpose. When the irons are hot rub them first with a wax rag, then scour with a paper or cloth sprinkled with salt. —Cincinnati Times.—Eight hnndred and ninety-one kernels of wheat, weighing abont two ounces, were recently abstracted from the mouth of a squirrel killed near Santa Cruz, Cal. Eight of such monthfuls make a pound. This fact will probably interest the farmer who has a thousand or more of these gormandizers on his farm. —San Francisco Call. - Wheat bran increases the flow of milk; but, unless unusually rich in flour, seems to have little effect on the yield of butter. One sample of bran may have five times as much nutriment in it a3 another. That made at the large merchant mills by the new process is usually about the dearest feed a butter dairyman can buy, so thoroughly is it stripped of all valuable elements. —Cleveland Leader. —Almost any kind of material left on the ground under fruit-trees, says a horticulturist, will act as a fertilizer. It will, at least, prevent the growth of grass and weeds, and thus cheek loss of moisture and fertility that the tree needs to perfect its crop. It is as a mulch that the advantage of straw' in orchards consists. Its fertilizing value is very small, and none of this available until the straw is rotted.— Chicago Journal. —The Fancier’s Gazelle says: Here is an infallible specific against all manner of poultry vermin, wh-.ch will do p.o violence to incubating eggs nor soil a feather of the fowl: Flour of sulphur, five pounds; fluid commercial carbolic acid, one dram; mix thoroughly in a pan or box with a stick, and theu with naked hand take the fowl by both legs, and, resting it on the breast, put a handful of the carbolized sulphur on the fluff and gently work it through the feathers. In five days you can not find an insect with a microscope.

The Repression of Weeds. There is an old and trite saying to the effect that those who would free themselves from any burden must themselves do the work. There is, also, an old fable extant of a man who, calling on the gods for help to extricate his cart from a mud hole, was advised to put his own shoulder to the wheel. Perhaps there is no other class of persons to whom these examples apply more closely and pertinently than farmers, for they certainly bear heavy burdens grievous to be borne in the shape of weeds and predaceous insects, of which they complain with justified bitterness and yet do not move a finger to help themselves. Just now, as one passes along tl% roads and sees the luxuriant crops of wild carrots, ragweed and thistles fast 'ripening their seeds, both on the roadsides and in the fields, and the low meadows and cornfields filling up with smartweed, beggar s ticks, and a hundred various kinds whose names would not be recognized, he can not fail to remark the carelessness and the reckless unwisdom of the farmers who permit their crops to be lessened and their time wasted by the overwhelming growth of these most pestiferous weeds, which, year after year, ripen and shed their seeds, to stock the ground for a century to come. Few farmers take pains to learn what weeds cost them, both in loss of time and in loss of crop. We have studied this subject to some extent during the past few years by carefully keeping plots of ground in various successive crops for several years, and noting the expense of thorough weeding in excess ot the usual cultivation in the rows and the difference between the crops on either plot, and as well one plot kept without any crop, but left to the weeds wholly, these, however, being killed by cultivation when only half grown, so that the persistence of the plants from the stock of seed in >the ground could be noted. The results are curious. The difference of yield of corn, carrots, potatoes and beets, grown with and without hand weeding, is nearly one-half more in favor of the hand-weeded and hoed; but the extra cost of the weeding is more than the value of the extra crop gained. On the plot left fallow but kept cultivated the result depends very much npon the season, as in very dry weather the growth is very light, while in a wet season, as the present, the growth of weeds after seven years constant weeding is more abundant than at first, and ret no weed has ever been permitted'to ripen a seed or ever bloom. During these seven years the persistence of the weeds is remarkable. The first weeds which appear are chickweed, wild radish, mustard and the common lamb’s, garter; the next are purslane, crab-grass (Fanicum sanguinale ), chiefly, with smartweed; then come ragweed, and a grass known as Eragrostis pilosa, recognized by its lead-colored spikelets, is the last of all. There are seversl others, as wild carrot, beggar’s ticks and the common spreading annual grasses which aro so abundant everywhere, not to forget the ever present white clover. In a wet season anew growth of these weeds spring up within a few days after the ground has been plowed and raked free from all the former growth, and after seven years there is no apparent diminution in the supply. On the roadside, where wild carrots and ragweed are abundant, the yearly mowings of these weeds do not diminish the stock, which is more or less abundant as the season* is favorable or otherwise.

It seems as though the old proverb, “One year’s seeding makes nine years’ weeding,’’ hardly goes far enough, but. then how many years’ seeding, vear after year, have there been? In the straggle for existence farmers are meeting with excessive competition. Just now it is a question whether or not the American farmer, with ail his advantages, can compete with the wre tolled, half-barbarous East Indian ryot or will be forced to go to the wall before his competitor, who goes almost naked and lives upon rice and pulse, and whose wife and children and himself; too, are slaves in all but name, and who can, therefore, grow wheat for twenty cents a bushel. Were it not that, while we have railroads and every civilized aid, the East Indian has none of these, our wheat would sell in the world’s markets for fifty or sixty cents a bushel, because of the excessive competition! and the American farmer would have—we were about to write, to starve; but he would avoid that, no doubt, by turning his attention to the removal of all his burdens, of whioh weeds are the chief, adding to his labor and reducing his crops. When India is provided with railroads and its wheat and com fix the price of these products here, the Aroerioaq farmer will have to find a way to get rid of his abundant and costly weeds, and it might be well

Our Young Readers. WHAT BESSIE IS GOOD FOB.J * Tea I Bridget has gone to the city And papa is sick, as you see. And mamma has no one to help her But two-years oid Laurence and me. * Vou’d like to know what I am good for, "Cept to make work and tumble things down? I guess there aren't no little girlies At your house at home, Doctor Brown I *“ I’ve brushed all the crumbs from the table, And dusted the sofa and chairs; I’ve polished the hearth-stone and fender. And swept off the area stairs. ** I’ve wiped all the silver and china. And Just dropped one piece oil the floor; Ye*, Doctor, it broke in the middle, But I ’spect it was cracked before. “ And the steps that I save preeious mamma! You’d be ’sprised. Doctor Brown, if you knew; She says if it wasn’t for Bessie Bhe couldn't exist the uay through I “ It’s ‘Bessie, bring papa some water!* And ‘Bessie dear, run to the door!’ And ‘Bessie love, pick up the playthings The baby has.droppei on the. floor.’ ** Yes. Doctor, I’m ’slderably tired, I’ve been on my feet all the day. Good-bye! well. prftops 1 uid help you When your old Bridget ‘goes off to stay ” ” —Good Cheer.

TWO BRAYE BOYS. n To find examples of courage one does not. need to go back into history. Nearly every day we read in the papers of brave deeds which people are' doing, and it very often happens that they are done by boys and girls. William and Frank Hardina are the sons of a Bohemian cigar-maker in West Farm, just above New York City. Frank, who is twelve years old, still go: s to school, but William, being two years older, helps his father at borne. In the family they speak the 'Bohemian tongue, but to the gentleman who interviewed them for this artifcle their language was pure American. Most street bo,vs in New York have a dialect of their own—a sort of “English as she is spoke”—which improves upon the ordinary tongue by turning ih into and, and using a great many wonts which neither Mr. Webster nor Mr. Worcester ever heard of. From these faults the speech of the Hardina boys is quite free; neither is it marked ,by any foreign accent. Before coming to New York they lived in Springfield, Mass., and Detroit, Mich., and it was in the latter place that they learned to swim. “They’d chuck us into the water.” said the elder, by way of explanation, “and we’d either have to swim or sink.” So by practice in the art the boys became as much at home in the water as out of it. They were told, too, by their father that if they ever saw any one drowning they must not hesitate to jump in. “Don’t wait to take your clothes off,” said the father; even if you do get them wet I sha’n’t punish you.” So instructed, they knew what they were to do when the time came. I don’t suppose they ever imagined it would come, but all the same they were prepared; and being ready to use one’s Knowledge is quite as necessary as to have the knowledge I don’t suppose, either, that Annie Overpacker and Mamie Carrol ever imagined that they .would owe their lives to the circumstance of the Bohemian boys being tossed into the Detroit River. But our lives hang together by very queer threads, and this is what actually happened. Annie and Mamie, who live in Tremont, a short distance from West Farms, had gone on a picnic one afternoon in July, with Annie’s aunt and some other friends. The picnic was held in a grove on the banks of the Bronx River, and near by a Sundayschool picnic was also being held. Any one who has traveled on the Harlem & New Haven Railroad will recollect the winding little stream that follows the course of the road, as one nears New York, with as many twists and turns as if it were a serpent. Near the shore the river is shallow enough, and in parts of its course it drifts lazily along, and clearly shows the pebbly bottom. But here and there are treacherous holes where the water is at least thirty ieet deep, and where one might drown as easily as if the little brook were Long Island Sound or the Atlantic Ocean. With care, however, bathing is not unsafe, but whether it was or not, the girls had promised themselves this sport as a part of the picnic. So, having put on their bath-ing-dresses, they waded out into the water, and stood there for a time watching the motions of Annie’s brother, who had swum out beyond them, and was vainly urging them to “come ahead.”

By-and-by the brother got tired, and struck out down the stream. The girls then turned their 'attention to themselves, and playfully tried to see which could “duck” the other. Moving backward step by step, they were getting ont into the river, and, without knowing it, one of the greit holes was yawning behind them. Now they are on the brink of it. Suddenly one steps over, and with a loud cry, striving to recover herself, grasps the other and drags her into the watery depths. Before those who are watching from the shoi'e can realize what has taken place, the children have disappeared, and only the widening ripples show wjpire they have sunk. Wild shrieks go up .from the shore, and one woman, who is Annie’s aunt, becomes frantic with terror, and is about to leap in after them. Two mounted policemen gaze stupidly on the scene, unable to do anything, for neither can swim. No one had noticed two barefooted boys who were fishing on the bank not far away. All at once there is a cry: “We’ll save them!” fdjlowed by a splash, and two heads are seen swimming in the water. The two boys are the Hardinas, and they have remembered their father’s advice. Quick as they were, however, the girls had already risen and sunk twice. Only one more chance remained, and as one of the girls came up for the third and last time to the surface. William grasped for her, and bolding her tight, made for the shore. It was Mamie, Carroll, the smaller of the two, leaving the older and heavier girl to the twelve-year-old boy. Frank, however, was not unequal to the task, and as Annie’s head came to the surface he clutched at the long hair. But it slipped through his wet fingers and the girl went down, clutching at his foot and dragging him along with her. Kicking away her hold, he dived after her, and caught her once more. Then, throwing one arm around her neck, and holding her securely in that position, he rose to the surface, manged to place her op his back, and soon found himself in a place where he could walk to land. When he could put down his burden —not a light one for a boy of his age—the people who flocked around found her insensible. Indeed, it took over an hour to revive her. Meanwhile the hoys wrung out their wet clothes, an i received the congratulations of the crowd and somewhat embarrassing embraces of the girl’s friends. No one thought of offering any reward but the policeman, and he contributed fifty cents. “The cop,” says William, in telling the story, “gave me half a dollar; but 1 lost my fishing line, and tho red on my Suspenders all came off on my shirt from the wet.” Beyond this, 1 owever, their garments were not damaged; and I .have no doubt that Mr. Hardina kept his word, and that the boys were praised at home for their courago as much as they deserved. Now it does not come to everybody as it did to the Hardina boys to save a person from drowning; but there are opportunities in every one’s life for the ilia play of just suoh qualities as these displayed—oourage, intelligent)*

and what we call presence of mind, which is simply having one’s wits about one, and knowing what to do in a difficult situation. This, after all, is the great thing to learn'; and if the boys and girls who are better circumstanced than these two young Bohemian-Amer-icans can only learn it half as well as thpy, they will have gained one of the most important lessons in life. —Eliot McCormick, in Harper's Young People. Training a Shepherd Dog. If you should Visit Central Park some fine morning you might see vouug Shep, the collie that is being trained to take the place of old Shep, the eighteen-year-old veteran, at his lessons. He is never whipped, not even when he does wrong or makes mistakes, because that breads the spirit of a collie, as, indeed, of any other kind of dog, and a shepherd dog must of all things be bravo. When he doesn't carry out an order correctly’, or iu such a way that the sheep can understand him, old Shep is sent with the same order and Snep Junior is made to keep still and watch him until it is executed. His first lesson is simply to guard a hat or a coat or stick thrown upon the grass by the shepherd, and he is left out with it sometimes until late in the evening to show him the importance of fidelity, the very first essential in a shepherd dog. Next he is taught to gather the sheep, to take them to the right, theu to the left. After this he is sent on the trail of a lost sheep, with instructions to bring it back slowly. The most important lesson, and one young Shep has not yet learned, is • that of going among the floqk, and finding out if any of them are missing. This, as may be imagined; is by no means an easy task with a flock of eighty-twe ewes and sixty-nine lambs. But old Shep can do it, for he Knows every member of the flock, though to the ordinary observer they all look almost exactly alike. Indeed, old Shep can, if his master, the shepherd, is not mistaken, perform a feat more wonderful than this. Tho shepherd says that Shep, when uncertain whether some of the flock have not strayed up the bridle-path on their way home, while he was bnsy,„ in keeping troublesome boys away, will take his stand at the gate of the fold and touch each sheep with his fore-paw as it passes in. At such times he has the air of a farmer counting his cattle as they come home at night, and he wears an expression as if his mind were occupied with an intricate sum in addition. Whether he is really counting the sheep or not can not be said positively; but he has been known, after noting each sheep as it passed, to rush off up the bridle-path and return with a straggler. This does much to prove that the shepherd’s assertion that old Shep eau count the sheep is possibly not far from the truth. —Franklin H. North, in St. Nicholas.

Military Berlin. One certainly sees more soldiers in the streets of Berlin than in those of London and Paris, but one does not see many of them, and they form altogether but a small minority of the g;opie one meets when walking abont erlin. And that is easy to explain; soldiers do not play at soldiering here as French schoolboys have done latterly. Fighting is considered by the Germans a business, or a trade, or an art —as you may like to call it—which is to be learned very seriously, and which keeps thejyoung men, who are noens volens de votedtoit, duringalmostthewholeday n their quarters or on the parade ground. As to the otficers, they are nearly as much taken up by their work as the most hard-working official, mercantile clerk, or artisan. The Lieutenant ot the guards, who has nothing to do but to show his fine uniform in the streets, exists only in the imagination of people who have never seen him. That aristocratic young gentleman generally begins his work at six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter and is tired out when at five or six o'clock in the evening he has at last got through it. It is not he, certainly, who crowds the streets of Berlin. He has other things to do than to walk about even when he happens to be on leave. There is, however, something military to be seen in the streets of Berlin at nearly every hour of the day, which may have struck the l’arisiau newspaper writer,tho. gh it does not belong exelusi vely.to Berlin,but to all the larger German towns where soldiers are garrisoned. Every now and then, especially about noon, you will meet small detachments of soldiers—four, six,, perhaps ten or twenty men—marching from tho guard-house to relieve the sentries on duty at the palaces of members of the Imperial family, the residences of commanding officers and certain public buildings such as the Ministry of War, the staff's office, the arsenal, etc. These soldiers, proceeded by a sergeant,’ walk in the middle of the street with long, regular, quiet steps, almost leisuriy. Suddenly a sharp word of command is heard. An officer or an Imperial carriage is in sight. The men all at once seem to have been struck by a galvanic battery, and from that instant to move under some strange and irresistible influence. With a kind of Spasmodic jerk straighten themselves up to their full height, their heads and shoulders are thrownback. their eyes are fixed on one and the same point —the passing officer; the rifle is held in a firm grasp by the powerful hand, and the feet violently thrown forward as by machinery, produce, as they tread the hard pavement at short, regular intervals a loud and yet muffled sound, familiar to the native of Berlin, and which causes him to look round toward those from whom it proceeds.—Blackwood's Magazine. Smti

Hints to Marriageable Girls. Some of onr contemporaries have become indignant by learning to how great an extent the practice prevailed at our principal ports of filling orders for wives sent by Western men with newly-arrived immigrant girls. They look upon this as a discrimination by Americans themselves against the American product, and insist that it ought to be stopped. There are places in many parts of our broad Western lands where women are scarcer than bens’ teeth. The men have ample possessions to support wives, and are anxious for mistresses of their hearts and homes. Indeed, their great eagerness for better halves is shown by their willingness to waive the great marital privilege of men—the right to make their own selection. There is a law of political economy .that goods will seek the best market. The American girl seems to be an exception, for the census shows the East to possess a superfluity. There does not seem to be any indisposition oh their part to go West. The trouble seems to lie iu a lack of system by which they may be distributed where needed. If those who are crying out against the Castle Garden scheme will devise some means whereby a Western man in need of a wife may secure a healthy American girl, they will probably be gratifying the Westerner by secur ng him a’helpmeet more congenial to his taste, and be rendering a grateful service to the so called supertiuous American girl. —Baltimore American. —Tho French railroad companies are about to adopt au electric gate opener. A catch connected with an electromagnet keeps the gate close J. When a train approaches it closes the circuit, releases tne catch and the gates fit open. The last car on the train as ft passes through opens the circuit and the gate* ft re again closed. The samt apparatus ring* a belt violently PA the eppwaoh of each traiAi 7

Temperance Beading. BUSTIN' THE TEMPERANCE MAH. Hoarsely demanding “Gimme a drink!” He aid ed up to the bar, . And he handled the glass with the air of ope Who has orten before “been thar;" And a terrible trlance shot out of his eyes. And over his bearers ran As he muttered: “I’m hangin’ around the town Fer to oust that Temperance man!” •Tve beerd he’s a cornin’ with stagin' and gfcli' r And prayin’ and heaps ot talk; And allows he'll make all felte: s what drinks Toe square to the 'iemp ranee chalk. I reels on”—and here he pulled out a knife That was two feet long, or more. And he handled his pis ots familiarly. While the crowd made a break for Hie door. The good man came, and his voice was kind. And his ways were meek and mild; “But I’m going to bust bim,” the roarer said, “Jess wait till he gits me riled.” When he playfully felt of his pistol belt. And took up his place on the stage. And waited in wrath for the Temperance man To furtner excite his rage. But the orator didn’t; he wasn't that sort. For he talked right s raight to the heart. And somehow or other the roarer felt The tremb ing tear drops start. And he thought of the wife who had loved him well. And the children that climbed his knee. And he said, as the terrible pioture was drawn: “He's got it kerrect—that’s me!” Then his thoughts went back to the yemn gone by, When his mother had kissed his brow. As she tearfully told of the evils Os drlgk. An I he made her a so emn vow That he never should touch the poisonous cup Which had ruined so many before: And the tears fell fast as he slowly said: “He’s ketchin’ me more and morel” He loosened his hold on his pistols and knifes And coveted his streaming eyes. And though It was homely, his prayer went up— Straight up to the starlit skies. Then he signed his name to the Temperance pledge. And holding it high, said he: “I came here to bust that Temp’rance chap, But I reckon ne's busted me.” —Union SU/nal

THE TRANSGRESSORS’ HARD ROAD. Experiences of the Vnfortmnateo Who Find Their Way to Blaekwell’a Island— Rum the Principle Cause of Their Rain and Misfortunes. ‘‘Let all who enter here leave hope behind,” said a melancholy specimen of humanity, accustomed to police courts, in rather a sarcastic tone to some new arrivals in the look-up adjoining the Jefferson Market Police Court a couple of days ago. He had been arrested for drunkenness and was awaiting a hearing, and was already discussing in his mmd the certainty, as he explained it, of being “sent up” for one month or else six. His remark had the effect—if it was not intended to do so—of making a few of the unfortunates in the gloomy, dirty prison pen even more miserable. EAKLT MORNING SCENES. As early as six a. m. daily from the various station-houses prisoners begin to wend their way in companv of bluecoated officers to Jefferson Market. A doleful looking spectacle a majority of them present. As early as nine o’clock the pen in tho rear of the court-room was crowded, as it is nearly every seven days of the week. The room is a dirtylooking, dark concern, witß an ironbarred door. Two benches only are provided, and for hours, owing to the limited space, the foul place is crowded, some standing, some sitting, others pacing to and fro if they can obtain elbow room; some enrsinj, some crying, sighing or moaning; some laughing, singing and making merry ov6r their misfortunes. Men well dressed; men coatless and shoeless, some hatless; some with bloody faces, blaok eyes or bloody noses, victims of a light or a policeman’s club; respectable men, vagabonds, tramps, thieves, burglars, old criminals and new ones, also miserable specimens of fallen humanity, whose rags and bodies are alive with vermin, are hero lor hours daily huddled together like the dogs in the pound. sin’s pandemonium. It is a veritable pandemonium of sin. wickedness and untold misery. Many are the victims of honest misfortune; some of revenge and spite; a few have been placed there by relatives, perhaps a mother or a wife; but a majority can attribute their arrest to the ruin they have brought from, perhaps, some gilded saloon Kepi by some alderman, or some of the thousand pothouse politicians who thrive on poor peoples miseiy while dol ng out tho drunkard's poison in the bar-rooms of this great Christtian (?) metropolis. fint what a scene is exhibited in this prison pen at ail hours! Bacchanalian songs are heard; vulgar stories are told; the air is black with putrid oaths; timid men are seen groaning and weeping over their disgrace; hardened Sinners are gloating over past misdeeds. A young thief' is heard boasting how he robbed a drunken “bloat” of hiS clothes and money and divided, it with the “cop;” another tells the uninitiated about the life one must lead on the Island; others curso the Judge and vow vengeance, while more than one almost give up in despair. It is a question for moralists to Study and decide whether the men who go fp before our police courts and are sent for the first time to the island ever become better citizens or not. Many lose their self-respect altogether. Many there learn lor the lirst time tho way of thievery’, and too many end their days in a prison .or On the gallows. On the walls of Jefferson Market is written the name of the murderer McGloin. He wrote it there years before he expiated his crime on the gallows. It would seem to be the especial delight of some of these island birds to leave their autographs at all places they visit.

PRISON FARE. The Justice sits about 9:30 a. m., and the prisoners are arraigned before him. Many are held for a hearing before the Court of General Sessions or the criminal courts. Some are bailed, some are fined, but a majority are ever doomed for the island. Bails and fines are not always forthcoming. These who are not prepared in this emergency are quickly hustled into a large room in the prison to await their future doom. The room is furnished with long wooden benches, a row of raised plank or a platform, which servos as a bed for forty or fifty; a closet, a hydrant and a single tin cup. Those who are so unfortunate m to be detained hero are furnished with a tin pan of rye water, called coffee (sugarless), and a piece of dry bread. Occasionally at dinner timo mutton-sou : or beef-soup, or an excuse for it, is s-srved in a small tin can. A spoon, but no knife or fork, is provided. The 1 risoners are always deprived of their pocketknives for fear they may do mischief or attempt suicide. * . LIFE ON THE ISLAND*, EveVy day except Sunday the prison van carries prisoners to the foot of Twenty-sixth street and ships them thoncc to the workhouse. The van is usually filled to its utmost capacity. At the foot of East Twenty-sixth street a dozen men or more are compelled to descend a ladder and enter the hold of the Fidelity or Bellevue, for Blackwood's Island bound. The hold will not accommodate comfortably more than half-a-dozon persons, yet a dozen are crowded in it r at once. They are locked in amid filth and rats, and at times confined there for hours. Should the steamer Fidelity spring a leak no doubt the prisoners would be drowned, as there would be little hope of rescue. Huge water rats move about, boldly in the hold of the vessel and play at tbe feet of the prisoners. In summer the prisoners almost die while confined in this hold of sulfocatiou and thirst. In the winter thoy are liable to freest to death, ArflTjftf lit tbe

. ] * v prisoners fens a Hue and march to tho workhouse. Here their pedigree i* taken, and at Ernes from a dozen to fifty are confined in one large cell to wait further orders. There are no seat* —notin this cell—and dozens of tho prisoners have to sleep there lor days and nights on the bare floor. There are no blankets. One who has been accustomed to a downy conch all his life must sleep beside the besotted tramp on the hare floor here. There ia no respecter of persons. If a mania very ill he may die here. A physician' must be asked for, as he does not calk of his own accord. The ten-day men are usually put to work about the workhouse cleaning up or about the gardens or placed on tho boats that run to the various institutions on the islands; Men who are sentenced for a month or more, if not retained for duty about the workhouse, are placed in gangs and sent to do service at the asylums and the hospitals on Randall’s, Ward’s and Hart’s Islands. A branch workhouse is maintained on Hart’s Island, where some two hundred men are kept at work breaking rocks, building sea walls, digging graves for tbepauper dead and burying them. The prisoners at the work-house must rise at five a. m., and wear the regulation uniform. Gangs of them are marched to the wash-room in line. They have only time to dip their hands in water, touch their faces and hair and hurriedly salute a dirty towel. Then they are marched to the mess-room. Rye coffee and diy bread for breakfast (no sugar); soup and bread for dinner (no knife or fork). An excuse for tea is served for supper, with dry bread five evenings in the week. Two evenings during the week the prisoners only have mush and molasses (no tea or coffee). On Fridays at dinner codfish soup as thin as water (no fish) is served the prisoners. Many of them complain of hanger. The “cooler” or dark cell is used, to punish refractory prisoners. The reporter noticed two or .three prisoners who wore balls and chains. One of these was being punished for swimming the East River and trying to escape not long ago. He was so unlucky as to get caught. Some of the prisoners are pnt in the dark cell for various causes and remain there for days living on bread and water. The prisoners are looked up at six p. m. for the night. It would surprise one to see the number of men who are sent to the island on account of domestic troubles. But a largo majority of the prisoners lay the cause of their imprisonment to rum.— H. ¥. Herald. ' Evil Effects es Beer-Drinking.

Alcohol is a slow poison. Men drink it largely diluted in beer, and manage to keep up a good outside show, whue within the/ are getting into a sad condition. They did not know it themselves, for they poison their nerves continually so that they get no true reports from within. But let some accident happen which sends them to the hospital, and then hear what the doctors say about them. Dr. Edwards savs: “Tho diseases of beer-drinkers are always of a dangerous character, and in case of an accident, they can never undergo the most trifling operation with the security of the temperate. They almost invariably die under it.” Dr. Grinrod, a prominent London physician, says: “A copious beer-drink-er is always one vital part. He wears his heart on his sleeve, bare ton death wound even from a rusty naif or the claw of a oat.” Dr. Gordon says: “The beer-drinkers, when attacked with acute disease, are not able to bear depletion, and they die.” Dr. Nixon says: “Intoxicating drinks, whether taken in the form of fermented or distilled liquors, are a very frequent predisposing cause of disease.” One of our own workers, on a recent visit the Bellevue Hospital, says: “As we entered the ward, the first sight opposite the door was a surgeon dressing a gangrenous arm. His words to the patient, as we caught them, were; “ No, I shall not let you go out: von would get a glass es beer, and that would kill you ” She continues: “ A boy in another bed, motherless, friendless, a stranger in a strange land, speaking no wopi of ours, had received a slight wound which pure blood would have thrown off’; hut he was a beer victim, and his hurt, with his poisoned blood, produced erysipelas. Another had scratched his finger, and his hand was in dagger of amputation. And so we went through the list, receiving testimony unexpected to ns. almost unasked by us, and almost unconsciously given, that systems clogged with effete matter which beer had prevented passing off, were incapable of resisting injury and disease.’ Some, if not all, of these, no doubt, had thought the beer was doing them good. Many boast of the good it does them, or of their being strong in spite of the beer. “I have drank a gallon of beer every day for the last thirty years,” said a brewer’s drayman, “and I was never in better health than at this moment” Yet the very next day he died in a fit of apoplexy. The beer told him that lie and he believed it. Men who are really well and strong do not die off in that way suddenly. When thoso beer drinkers get into the hospital, and the doctor snows them the true state of things, then they begin to see, though often too late, what beer has really done to them. “Fortney have heated the hurt slightly, saying: Peace, peace, when there is

Temperance Items. - ' Cholera does not seize its victims by hazard, it has been ascertained that of every one-hundred persons who die of this disease ninety are habitual drinkers. Invisible placards on every spirit shop in the land read “Cholera sold here.”— Onio* mortal. The offioimls of tho Erie Railway intend to enforce strictly the rules regarding drinking by employes. A freight crew on the Delaware division have been laid oT on account of an empty beer-keg being found on their train, said keg having been known to bs fall when it was put on. What we want in our schools is to do away with the foroe of a pernio ous example and n long cherished error, by making the children thoroughly intelligent on the subject of alcohol. The more thoroughly we can instruct the young concerning the dominating evil of our time, the better it will be for them and for the world.— J. O. Holland. Mr. W. W. O’Brien, the wellknown criminal lawyer at this city, who has foresworn the use of all intoxicants, made the startling statement in a recent address that, from personal observation, he was convinced that ninedeaths of all the crime committed was caused by strong driqk; that nine out of every ten murders committed were due to strong drink; and that at least one-half of the men who died between the ages of thirty and fifty-five were killed, either directly or indirectly, by strong drink. —Chicago Journal. Exactly what proportion of prison inmates are brought thither by drink it would be. difficult to estimate, but it is undoubtedly very large. Mrs. Mary A. Livermore is reported ns saying, after a recent visit to the Women’s Prison at Sherburne, Mass., that she saw hardly an inmate of the institution whose fall had not been caused by drink. And a Southern Temperance paper, whioh ghrte 9,47 as the number of the prisoners confined In the oounty jftill Os Illinois, adds that B.QQV Hiait tm from ulumi, VW wpR Wv v TANARUS, :Si ■-" -“•*