Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 April 1884 — Page 6

- FRINTKMPS. To the Editor: ' f ? Here is a balmy little thtnr , To fill your heart with joy; Ent *e it is a sone of spring. I send labra boy. THE rOKM. The vine on the cot is blowing, The nest is luilt in the tree, And the apple limbs are snowing Their blooms in the fragrant lea. The bird to his mate is singing, The lambkin skips on the hill. And the rosy clover’s springing Beside the gurgling rill Sir Strephon his love is stoning, The cricket begins to chirp, . J.nd the boy in the back yarcTs tying . The can to the brindledpurp. Above the lake in the hollow That mirrors a cloudless sky ... la darting the airy swallow. And th® purple dragon-fly. 11 The bumble-bee in the garden Rons riot the livelong day. And Maud in her Dolly Varden Plucks flowers along the. way. . Sir Strephon his love is sighing. The cricket begins to chirp . And the boy in the back yards tying The can to the brindled purp. POSTSCRIPT. ~ If this poetic daisy Should make yon sad and sore, And get you wild and crazy To spill me on the fl >or. And hnrl me through the casement. Or maul me like a toy. And drop me to the basement. Why—take it out of the boy! EPITAPH. Beneath thi® stone lies Johnny Green, An office-boy ot modest mien. Who found the pathway to the tomb. Straight from an editorial room. —Jt K. Mwddltrick, in Harper's Magazine.

“LOONEY SAL.”

None of the inhabitants of the little town could tell why she was called “Looney Sal.” It could not have been because of any mental defect, for none such -was apparent in her. She was born in one of the low board huts of Shippenville, which stood on the swampy outskirts of Hoboken, and excelled the other rattletraps in evidences of senile decay. These were inhabited by the lowest of low wretches, all vagabonds by trade or profession, as yon will? No one asked who her parents were, and had such an inquiry been made no one could have answered it. “Granny Smith’s Den,” a low rumbole, could hardly be called Sal’s home —it was more of a place where she was allowed to exist in compensation for the fruits of her skill at petty larceny, the inevitable whenever she visited any of the mercantile,establishments. At night she edified the gatherings at Granny Smith's by songs and dances, and the words of the former were Usually indecent paraphrases of the popular songs of the day. Her wakeful nights could not but produce extreme sleepiness during the day, and it was no rare occurrence to see Sal stretched in slumber on the open meadow for many hours during the afternoon. These odd habits, associated with the girl’s other peculiarities. made her an object of curiosity as well as of dread to the school children. The younger ones, in obedience to their parent's commands, made a wide circuit about the open space in which Sal spent her forenoons. The older ones were attracted to the spot—perhaps conscious of approaching independence, perhaps only because of the curious sight of the black-locked, dark-eyed girl as she lay stretched upon he “seesaw” and gently rocked it up and down, as she hummed some weird song. Whenever the boys came near enough to be noticed by her she frightened them off with fierce grimaces, which seemed to pursue them in their flight to the sound of almost maniacal laughter. Sal had no friends or playmates. What girl would have selected her as a companion, she who associated only with those who shone as disreputable among the outcasts of Shippenville? Furthermore, her pugilistic prowess was as dreaded by the boys as was her scurrilous language by the girls. Sometimes, but rarely, a boy who vaunted his bravery could be induced into coming within her reach, but then it was only through the process known to children as “daring.” These efforts at a display of courage invariably produced a very subdued boy.jjrhose face and garments could hardly be considered ornamental. The “big boy” of the academy, Dick Allen, had “licked” allot his classmates but two or three, and Sal had conquered them. The other boys “dared” Dick to engage in combat with Sal, but he, .prompted by ,a ,sp^ie!i. k pf manliness,declined to fight a.girk On being greeted with "the inharmonious chant of "fraid cat,” “fraid cat,” he astounded his companions by a proposition to secure the girl’s friendship within half an hour. The doubts and depreciations which his playmates uttered stimulated him to proceed at once to Sal’s sunny S>ot. Of course his “chum,” Will srry, went with him. “Fellows, you could just see that he went ’Cause he was dared,” said Tom Sievers when he recounted his observations, taken from behind a large rock. “Will Barry played sharp; he just kept behind Dick, and Dick he marched right up to the Loonev Sal’s see-saw, and if he did look a little white, and if he did stand off—well, so far as that she couldn’t biff him in the eye—Dick he said, ‘Hello, Sal.’ And what do you think Sal did? I expected to see Dick mauled—just chewed up. An’ all you folks know I’m Dick’s friend—” “Oh, come now, Tom, give it to us straight,” one of the boys interrupted the juvenile modern Minnesinger; “tell us what slie did.” " j ‘ “Well, nothing,” answered Tom. . She Just stopped her see-saw, looked up at Dick just as if he was a cat or something; then she lay down agin, and working her see-saw she went on singin’, ‘See-saw, buck-a-me raw, folderol. dolderol, diedaw.’ Say fellows, that girl kin sing. Golly, it just—” ‘ "Oh, Tom, your, just foolin’,” his comrades cried; “tell us all about it” “Well, ain’t I telling yer? She just went on see-sawin’ just as if there wasn’t no Dick nor no Will. Then Will he gave Dick a shove to keep him from weakenin’, and then Dick he sings out again, ‘Hallow, Sal.’ Then Bal she took no notice of ’em strain. Then Will, he said, ‘Call her Looney Sab' why. don’t ye,’ and then— r Tom was not required to continue the Isle. All of the scholars had seen the boys running, followed by Sal; they

had observed her gleaming eyes; they had seen her agile body fly after them over stile and stone; had seen them approach the school, pass over the threshold, rush upstairs into the classroom, and there, before the very eves of the teacher, she threw her offenders to the floor, and with each blow of her little clenched fists she hissed: “Whoyer call looney? Who’s loouey, eh?” As she struck them the other scholars jumped upon their seats to get a better view of the one-sided encounter, perhaps. They did not hear what the teacher said as he stooped over the strugglers and tore the girl from her passive, bewildered opponents. A dead silence reigned as he held the girl and gravely asked: “What have you done to the girls, you boys?” And then—so the class supposed — ho certainly must have whispered some severe threat to the wild girl. For what else could have-so - suddenly calmed her passionate rage ? Sal, when he directed the question to the boys, raised her face tohiswithacurious mixture of searching doubt and astonishment, and when he said: “Come with me, girl,”she followed him out of the classroom in the meakest possible manner. When half an hour had elapsed he returned to the classroom and his lessons, but his manner, ever kind as it was, seemed to have added to it an incomprehensible gravity, which appeared even Sadness. Sal did not go back to her hut, but walked to the back of the school and sat down on a block of stone. The day passed,yet she barely moved. None of the children stopped to see what had become of her;, she heard them leave the school, but did not stir. Evening came, a chilly raw evening. Sal drew her knees close to her body, wound her bare, bruised arms about them and crouched there, a frowsy, uncanny creature, “Teacher says forgive them fellers and don’t steal. He don’t cuss me nor he don’t call me Looney Sal nuther. He sez Sairey—Sairey—ha, ha, ha! Me Sairey. Ha, ha, ha—” t Her laughter was interrupted by the coarse croak of Granny Smith’s voice, which asked: “Air ye crazy, Sal ?” Granny Smith was an industrious person. While her soul-and-body destroying work at night would have more than justified her sleeping all day, she stole hours from her rest doing which she stole all else that came within he reach, as she feigned to travel about in the guise of a ragpicker and beggar. Her way home this day led behind the school-house—a belated “kept-in” child might be there; it could be knocked down and robbed of a slate, if nothing else.— “What air ye doin’ here?” “Nawthin',” said Sal. Her defiant tone awakened the hag’s ire. Her bony hands grasped and struck the girl, while her hoarse, gutteral voice accompanied each blow with brief remarks, of which only the following will bear transcription; “Wagabone! Too lazy to dance, is yer ? I’ll learn ye—yer!” She helped Sal on to the shanty; kicks and blows and curses were the means employed. But they were of no avail; though the boisterous, drunken audience called for Sal, she refused to dance; and instead of her songs they heard heavy blows which fell upon a human body, but not a plaint was uttered. The assemblage were too low to even attempt a defence of the child. * Several days thereafter Sal’s see-saw stood idle, and the store-keepers of Hoboken did not have to bewail the loss of any of their merchandise. Sal was not seen anywhere, and no one inquired about her. The children as they went to school gave a glance at the see-saw. Sal was not on it; nor the next day either. It would be fun, aye, quite brave to destroy the waifs only pleasure. The boys who wrecked the see-saw did not feel quite manly when they did it, but they had heard their parents say it were well to eradicate the miscreants of Shippenville, to destroy every vestige of the settlement. And then the boys who made fire-wood of Sal’s seesaw, all of them bore marks of blows inflicted by her. Bevenge is sweet. The scholars were assembled in the large class-room and sang their reverential morning hymn. The song ceased suddenly as a little, browned face appeared at one of the windows. A little tareT’-’figure sat on ' Looney Sal!” the children screamed.* Mr. Shepherd quietly approached the window and lifted the sash, and at the same time the quaint little body disappeared. Sal slid down the lightning rod, which was within reach, and stood on the ground below. She looked anxiously up at the window she had so hurriedly left. The teacher evidently did not see her. He had htrrdly drawn in his head when she again cl imbedjto the window. This time she heed not press her face against the pane; the sash had not been closed. Her shadow fell upon the teacher’s desk, but he appeared not to observe it. Sal cast a dubious glance at him, and then, to sustain her anger,threw a handful of small stones on the floor.

“Is that you Sarah ?’’ His tone expressed neither reproof nor surprise; it was a simple greeting. Sal might have expected this. She bent through the open window and laughed rudely. “I wur here before.” “Is that so?” He looked upon her as if her conduct were( eminently preper. “Did you wish to come in?” he asked invitingly. Sal stared at him. Her defiant expression gave place to one of surprise. “What—me?” The teacher nodded. “In thar?” “Certainly, if you wish to.” Sal sprang through the window. “Goin’ to sing?” she asked impudent- .. . The teacher nodded and continued to turn the leaves of his book without looking at her. “Page thirty-eight,” he called to the boys, and then handed his open book* to the little guest. , “Will von sit down and sing with tik?” ‘ „ A peal of loud, ooarse laughter was her only answer. And she laughed she struck her brown fists on her knees and -

rocked her body to and, fro. As suddenly she ceased to laugh when she noticed the stem expression on the teacher’s face. She hung her head, twisted her fingers about and scratched the floor with her foot in a most embarrassed manner. “Can’t read,” she exclaimed suddenly as she looked into the teacher’s face. He placed his hand on her bedraggled unkempt head. “That makes no difference, child: some of us here are not good readers—that is why I read each verse of the hymn before we sing it.” She silently ascepted the little stool that was offered her, and sat ever so still, with downcast eyes as if she would not interrupt the full, deep voice of the man who sang. And then the room resounded with the clear voices of the children, as they were lifted in tuneful prayer. Sal did not stir. When the song subsided the sudden stillness seemed to awaken Sal as if from a dream. The teacher thought her cheek was moist. “Is there anything the matter with you, child?” She shook her head, quietly returned the book to him, and approached the door. “Kin I go out here?” He opened the door. “Did yon like our song, Sarah ?” The habjtually aggressive face looked piteous, and her great dark eyes glimmered. They were suffused with tears. She rapidly brushed the back of her hand over her eyes and ejaculated: “Them fellers busted my see-saw. I cum here to bust them.” As harsh as her words were they conveyed an explanation for her presence, in which the child—perhaps unconsciously—expressed regret for her evil intention. **'* * * ♦ The streets were still and deserted. The peaceful little city seemed to have gone asleep with all its 1 inhabitants; only Granny Smith’s Den was illumined by a solitary dip-light. A few ruffians were discussing one of those plans, the execution of which had given Shippenville its merited disrepute. Sal lay crouched upon a bundle of illsmelling straw, asleep, perhaps; “The first of the month,” growled the old hag, “The kids bring the school money. Two dollars each of ’em. Makes near S3OO. Now’s yer chance. Send Sal up the lightnin’ rod, and have her drop the rope-ladder. Shorty gits up an’ then—well, let’s take a drink first.” She placed a bottle of vile whisky to her lips, and passed it to Dan, the pickpocket, the least valiant of the lot. Shorty took the bottle next, and. with a “here's lucking at ye.” would have drained it had not the Old woman snatched it from him, exclaiming: “Hold on! No giftin’ drunk aforehand.” Sal knew that she had to take part in robbing the schoolmaster’s monthly receipts. She arose rapidly and attempted to glide out of the room. Shorty and Granny Smith grasped her, and the old bedlam croaked: “Was goin’ to skip, was yer? I knowed it, ye peacher. You're in love with him, is yer? clean gone, hey? Was goin’to slide out an’give us away, yedaisy? Thet’s the thanks we gets for feedin’ ye, ye cat. I’ll learn ye-—” -‘Hol* on, Granny,” said Dan the pickpocket, whose libations had stimulated him into a species of judgment, “stop beatin’ an’ cursin’ of her now; when we’ve made the ritlie kill her if it suits ye; nobody’ll care.” The old hag swore that she would, and kicked the girl into the street. She continued to thump and kick her until the party arrived at the academy; then she gave her a rope ladder, and as she ordered the child to climb up the light-ning-rod, hissed: “Git up to the window, open it and fasten the hooks into the sill. If ye makes the littlest noise to give us away, Shorty’ll be up after yer and he’ll cut out yer lights and his’n too. Find the money an’ nobody won’t get hurt.” The child’s hard face looked uneasy in the moonlight. In a trice she was on the sill, had opened the window, fas tened the hooks, and dropped the ladder. Shorty was with her in a moment. They passed through the school room into the teacher’s sleeping apartment. Sal did not look at the man; the excitement of the adventure made the theft more attractive to her than all -others had ijwfi; Shu found the dash box breast. “Thou shalt not steal—forgive those that sin against thee,” murmured the teacher in his sleep. ,®_ Shorty clapped his hand on Sal’s mouth and stifled the cry she was about to utter. He grasped her and quickly dragged her from the room. When they returned to the window he released her. “Yelp now, ye pup, an’ I’ll go back an’ cut his throat.” Sal stood as if to allow him to descend first “Not much, ye devil—you go first. I ain’t goin’ to leave yer here to yell.” Sal crawled toward the ground. Shorty followed, the frail ladder swinging and treating to break. “Hurry down ye cat,” said Shorty, when they were about midway between the window and earth. Below stood Granny Smith and Dau; above her Shorty with his brightly gleaming knife. Her time had come; she would not steal from the only being that had ever spoken a kind word to her. Before her intent could be understood she had run up to Shorty,wrenched the knife from his hand.and cut one side of the rope ladder. “Help! murder I thieves!” she screamed. The instinct of self-preservation caused her to cling to the ladder, but the weight being thrown on one hook alone it tore through the wood of the sill and—a groan, a crash—and Shorty and Sal lay on the street. He shivered, seemed to choke and gurgle. Shorty was before a higher judge than ever passed sentence on him on earth. The noise had attracted a few belated wayfarers, and a moment later the schoolmaster came out with a lantern. “What is the matter?” He saw the bodies. “Are they badljihurt ?” Some one J ' answered, '‘Shippenville thieves. Good for them. Why, here’s Looney Sal—got her deserts at last” “Oh,no; I am snre she did not intend

any wrong," said the teacher as he lifted her little head. She looked at him with a smile, and when his expression assured her that she would be believed, gasped, “Teacher —I wouldn't hook nothin'—-from yer yer is good to me—” “Don’t speak, poor child. I know yon would not.” He looked upon her suffering, quivering form. » “I’d like ter go ter school,” she breathed. He took her ih his arms and carried her into the same class-room into which she had intruded but a few days before. ■‘' E:; - , " “Had we not better send for a surgeon ?” asked one of the good-natured neighbors whom the noise had at-; tracted. “Too late, my friend,” said the teach; er; “the end is approaching.” “Ain’t der!— goin’—dor—be—no—singin’?” Sal sighed. Immediately youngman’s voice, strong and fulErbso in the hymn of praise that the class hat| sung the morning that Sal first went tq school. She faintly sung the melody with him, and toward the end. of tiie song her voice grew fainter and until it was reduced to a mere “Sarah—poor child!” The young man bent over her as he anxiously called her. She opened her eyes_ and smiled at him. “More singin’,” she gasped. He complied “with her request in a choked voice. And as the glimmering dawn oame in through the window the bruised little body moved no more. In silence the teacher arose and reverently brushed back the matted locks from poor Sal’s little face, which smiled peacefully in death.— New York Graphic.

Why People Get Married.

Though it is very common to reproach old bachelors with their celibacy, and to pity old maids as if “single blessedness” were a misfortune, yet many married people have seen fit to offer apologies for having entered into what some profane wag has called the “holy bands of padlock.” One man says he married to get a housekeeper; another to get rid of bad company. Many women declare they get married for the sake of a home; few acknowledge that their motive was to get a husband. Goethe averred that he got married to be “respectable.” John Wilkes said he took a wife “to please his friend.” Whycherly, who espoused his housemaid, said he did it “to spite his relations.” A widow, who married a second husband, said she wanted somebody to condole with her for the loss of her first. Another,-to get rid of incessant importunity from a crowd of suitors. Old maids who get married invariably assure their friends that they thought they cotfld_be “more useful” as wives than as spinsters. Nevertheless, Quilp gives it as his opinion that ninetenths of all per sons who ■ marry, whether widows or widowers, virgins or bachelors, do so for the sake of—getting married.— . Exchange.

Two Ways of Looking at It.

Henry Ward Beecher.—l don’t wonder that some mothers weep when their daughters are born, and cry: “Oh, that it had been a son!” There are some sad experiences that would lead a mother to pray that every one of 1 her children be men. Mary A. Livermore.—l reluctantly accepted the invitation to visit a very wealthy lady in a city where I had been lecturing on the subject of “What Shall We Do with Our Girls ?” As she closed the dams of her grand house behind her Rhe sidd.: “My daughters are a source of w/uneasiness to me, but what in liCaven’s name shall we do with our boys?” There on the bed, with his overcoat and boots on, lay her son, a handsome young man, stupid drunk. A few months later she wrote me that she had gone to his room and turned back the covers of his bed to find him with his throat so terribly cut that he had almost decapitated himself, while a note lying on his table explained that, unable to break off his depraved appetite for strong drink, he had put an end to himself.

Ancient Music.

The Egyptian flute was only a cow’s horn with three or four holes in it, and their harp or lyre had only three strings The Grecian lyre had ouly seveu strings and was very small, being held in one hand. The Jewish trumpets, that made the walls of Jerisho fall, were ram’s horns; their flute was the same as . the Egyptian; they had no other instrumental music but by percussion, of which the greatest boast was the psaltery, a small triangular harp or lyre, with wire strings, and struck with an iron needle or stick; their sackbut was something like a bagpipe; the timbrel was a tambourine, and the dulcimer was a horizontal harp<with wire strings and struck with a stick like the psaltery, They had no written music and had scarcely a vowel in their language, and yet, according to Josephus, they had two hundred thousand musicians playing at the dedication of Solomon’s Temple. Our Chicago Theodore Thomas would have died irr the greatest agonies at such a concert.— The Bye. - »<■ - '

Wanted To Be Counted In.

“Oh! I think it must be so niee to bo connected with a newspaper,” said Miss McFlynn to young Quilldriver, as they sat together one evening. “Yes, it is, so so,” he replied “but why do you think it is ?’’ “Why, it has so many advantages. I should think you would glory in the freedom, the power, the liberty, and. all the privileges of the press.” “Certainly. I do. It’s a pity with all your enthusiasm oft the subject that you are not a journalist” ’ “I think so, too; but you know, it is hard for a woman to get recognition. 1 should be delighted to feel that the press embraced me.” ... “Oh! you would, would you ? Grea! Soott! wait till I turn down the gas.”— Texas Siftings. When a young man begins to raise down upon his face it is no wonder thahe acts like a goose. Down and a goose always go together. Gen. Tannatt, Mayor of Walla Wai la, Oregon, has a dog that eats pins vo racionsly. l .■ ,

THE DUDE.

A Faithful Portrait of a BtHM-Madi Specimen. "Do they make you tired ?” “Well, I should hum!” The question and its metaphorical but vigorously expressive answer were inspired by the presence of a Detroit dude (a genuine specimen of the species) in a Griswold street barber shop. The person who proposed the question was a gentleman who subsequently explained that the sight of a dude or even adu deling (who merely his hair •n the middle), 'had almost as marked an effect on him as water has on a dog affected with hydrophobia. “I git quite a procesh of them things in my chair," continued the barber, with a curious nervous movement —a cross between a chuckle and a shudder —“but jest as soon’s warm weather comes I’m goin’ to rattle ’em out, now don’t you forget it.” “Why? Are they not profitable customers ?” “Not much! There’s that little feller that just went out. We call him Lizzie here in the shop—when he ain’t around —because he’s more like a gir£ goin’ to her first ball than a man.' I don’t ’spose he’s more’n 20 years old, but his git-up’s .a killer. He come in here the night oH>he swell skatin’ party at MoQuade’s rink, with a claw-hammer coat on under a toiler (new market you know), that pretty nearly dragged on the ground, a white handkerchief spread out under his vest, and the darndest toothpicky pair of toothpick shoes on I ever got onto—and I’ve seen some tough ones in my time. I was wait in’ on a customer, and so this feller he set down in that very chair you’re in now, hauled out a one-eyed eye-glass, stuck it into his right eye, screwed up the right-hand corner of his mouth and made out’s if he was a readin’. Mr. Merry weather, there, laughed so much he’s been sick ever since. “When, I get through with my regular customer I tried to fish up an excuse to git out of the shop, but the dude got onto me and I was stuck. I had to bang his hair, then part it down the middle a little ways and then plaster jt and bring the ear-locks forward. After that he wanted a hand-glass, and then I had to arch up his eye brows, which he wouldn’t let me do till he’d stuck that one-eyed glass in again.” “Well, you made at least a dollar on the job?” ~ “ “Got jest twenty-five cents. Why, every time that feller and his kind comes around they want the ends of their hair trimmed and don’t never want to pay more’n ten cents for it, either.” “What is your observation with respect to the intellectual strength of men who part tneir hair in the mfddle?” “Oh, that depends. We git Canucks and Englishmen here sometimes who do that and yet who seem to have horse sense ; but when it comes to our own country folks (Americans I mean, not Africans,) the fellers that part their hair in the middle don’t amount to a hill of beans—can’t talk about anything but clothes and hair oil with now’n then an exception ’bout gals. Never saw one of them curses that didn’t think every gal he knowed was dead gone on him, and I’ll bet money not one of ’em could tell to save his soul when the Mayflower come over or whetlier Abe Lincoln or Bismarck issued the ©mancipation proclamation.” Here Mr. Merryweather seized the opportunity to remark that “none o’ them dudes (last f?° to the roller skat in-’ rinks for fear all the ladies’d be after ’em to skate to fast music, and that’d pweat their bangs all out.” “S-s-s-h!” commanded the boss as another dudelet swung open the door and came simpering along to the enemy’s chair.” The boss winked wickedly, Mr. Merryweather stuffed one fist into his mouth, the historian of the episode paid for two week’s shines and the curtain dropped.— Detroit Press.

Alfred Tennyson.

Alfred Tennyson was born in the little rectory of Somersby, in Lincolnshire, England, in 1809. The rector was a quiet, scholarly man and quite unknown outside of a navrow circle; but all his sons inherited his literary taste, and each has contributed something of merit to English letters. Alfred has, however, far outstripped them all; Wibugh hi'S Wother w&g first and. ablest- critic, and- published ia ■ conjunction with him a volume of poems in 1827. Later. Tennyson took the Chancellor’s medal at Cambridge University, for a poem in blank verse, entitled “Titnbuctoo;” and in 1830 he published a volume of “Poems, Chiefly Lyrical.” His first great poem was “The Princess,” which appeared in 1847. Three years later, on the death of Wordsworth, Tennyson bacame poetlaureate. “Maud, and Other Poems,” “The Idylls of the King,” “Enoch Arden,” and “The Widow” followed in rapid succession; and in 1875 the poet entered the field of the drama with “Queen Mary,” followed by “Harold.” In dramatic writing, however, lie is not successful, for there is an unreality and monotony in his plays that rentiers them unpopular. The poet has just accepted a peerage from the Queen. He lives in quiet elegance on the Isle of Wight, having bnt few friends whom he cares to entertain or visit, and devoting himself wholly to his literary work.

Just Like the Father of a Family.

Mrs«J). —What a wonderful jumper the puma is. Mr. D.—What have you found now? Mrs. D.—Here is an item which says that a puma in the Blue Mountains recently jumped forty feet. Mr. I).—Poor fellow! lean sympathize with him. Mrs. D. —How you ta’k! Mr. D.—Most likely the luckless animal was searching for paregoric in the dark and stepped on a tack— Philgdelpliia Call. If a man will only start with a fixed and honorable purpose in fife, and strictly and persistently attempt to carry it out to the l>est of his ability, undismayed by failure er delay, the time may be long in coming, but come it will, when that purpose will be achieved.

PITH AND POINT.

! The cause of all taffy—lasses. Writing a wrong is the forger's work. 1 A fall soot—The contents of a stovepipe. Married life should be a sweet; harmonious song, and, like one of Mendelssohn’s, “without words.” The man who purchased a porous plaster in order to draw an influence, died of a cold contracted by coming in contact with a sight draft. The beggar who insists upon appealing to your generosity with his breath smelling of whisky, shows that he has some spirit in him after all.— Texas Siftings. Little Jenny belonged to a fashionable set. “Here, Jenny,” said her father, “here’s a new doll.” “Oh, father, that’s no good; take it away. They haven’t worn those things for a month.” A six-year-old Pine Creeker come rushing into the house the other day and declared that there were a lot of deer in the field back of the house. The family proceeded to investigate,, but no deer were to be found. “I. allow,” said his mother, “you did not see any deer; it' was your imagination that has horns and a tail that stands straight out behind.”— Williamsport Grit. The eoat-of-arms of Dakota shows, among other things, a white man and an Indian, looking up at this motto shining in the sky—“ Fear God and take your own part.” Ho, ho! In the division of labor, enjoyed by that motto, the Indian is supposed to be fearing God for the two, while the white man holds onto his own part with one hand and takes the Indian’s with the other. —Burdette. BUT COULD SHE FRY CLAMS? Her lips were ripened fruit, where bliss Might long to die upon a kiss, By feeling stung to perfectness. The languor of a passion past. Too perfect at its hight to last. The sweet and half-exhausted sense Of being almost too intense, Beneath whose exquisite excess Life fainting falls in weariness And drops to sad indifference. All this had made her wan cheeks thin And love’s lost parpose lived alone Up'n the proud projecting throne Of her compelling chin. THE EDITOR’S -ANSWER. "You are doubtless honest, madame, In your views on lady suffrage, But I do not think that any Sndh results as you have mentioned Would be followed by bestowing On the gentle sex the ballot. Audit by some stroke of fortune They were able to outvote us The next President would surely Be a man who was selected For the all-sutlici~nt reason That his surging brain created Bancs to supersede the Langtry, Or a nine teen-button kid glove With a candv-box attachment. “No, fair njalden. you are flying linthdr high for ducks t > found be When you ask a man to coldly Take the chan- es of inflftdiog. On a great and glo sous c untrv borne hig i-collared man for ruler. And to hove our foreign scrvice Wear tight pant® and ride bicycles. Woman is a thing ot beauty, Tn h‘ r sphete she takes the biscuit. Takes it. without opposition; But to have her wield the ballot Would d'spe! the fond illusions That we entertain about her. Homeward skip, O, Minnehaha, Spank the baby if it’s crying, Put away your sealskin jacket And prepa-e your husband's supper. Se«-k not other worlds to conquer. Put content yourself with thinking ; Ot your luck n having -onio one To get nn and hustle fur you." —Chicago Tribune.*

Something That’s Disagreeable. “Yon is looking berry poorly, Uncle Mose.” ■" “Dat’s a sac, I reckon, es I looks as poorly as I feels.” “You must hab taken sumfin what disagrees wid yer." “Ob course, I has done tuck sumfin seberal years ago what disagrees wid me. Oar's nobody knows dat bettern you do, Parson Wangdoodle Baxter, kase you gib me de berry ting what has been disagre in’ wid me, leastway you had your han’«in hit anyway.” “Me! Me gib yer sumfin what disagrees wid yer. ? Uncle Mose, I b’leeves you’s a-loosin’ what little brains yer had in de fu«t place. What de debbel did I gib yer dat disagrees wid yer, and makes yer look miser’ble ?" “My wife. Davs what you gub me. Didn’t you marry me to dat Matildy Snowball, what disagrees wid me forty times a day ebar since we were married? G’way, Wangdoodle, or I’ll disiemember you am de ’pointed ob de Lawd. and jam yer carkiss inter an ash barrel. G’way, I sav, dis heah disagreement am catcbin’, and I has got hit OH TexaS ' sfepk -nirtwi m rrr- - -

Straw as Fuel.

“Yes, I’ve lived out West for fen year,” said a traveler, who was bearded like a forty-niner; “I mean on the prairies of Nebraska. Great country, too.” “What do the folks do for fuel?” “Well, nowadays we’re following after the Rooshuns,. the Rooshun Mennouites, know, iu the fnel business. They are right smart ingenious in some things, and this is the way they get over the * fuel difficulty. They build their houses of four rooms, all cornering together in the center. Right there they pnt up a great big brick oven, with thick walls. From the furnace door back to the back yard is a passageway. Every morning, ’noon, and night they lug a jag of straw in from the stack and burn it in the furnace. The thick walls get red hot, and stay so for hours, warming every room in tire house. Even in the coldest weather three fires a day in the furnace will keep the house warm. For the cooking stoves we burn corn stalks to get meals with, and thus our farms raise our fuel as we go along. Pretty good scheme, isn’t,it?”—Chicago Herald.

Leap Year in Spain.

I noticed that a Spanish girl of my acquaintance held her fan half open. I asked the philosophy of the thing. “Why, you wouldn’t have me hold it iny other way, would you ?” she said vith mild surprise. “What difference does it make?” “All the difference. If I keep it closed it means I hate yon.’’ “Heaven forbid!” ' “And if I open it wide ft means I 1-o-v-e y-o-n.” As she began to open it I fled.—Wew York Commercial : .... twill- **lti ißiigiiiji ' iiiiisr,-■ ” '• The consumption of tea in Great Britiau is about skcjtonnds to one pound of coffee. t.