Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1884 — Page 6

’ ob *W upland wihL lithe sweet wild rose, g—mornings grew less fair; forked in the bloom, ssthof the summer sir; 1m it seems; e rarer grow; ng with greedy mouth At the heart of all that we love or know, And u shade feU over the summer Helds, And the sun In its brightness seemed to wane. Her heart's Song faltered—alas! for her. His doubts crept into the perfect strain. —KaU L. Brown in Harper's Magrume. —e DREAMING, I dreamed we two were friends again As in the days of yore, And all life held of bliss or pain Came back to me onoe more; Yoor laughter, ringing clew and sweet, Tour dark eyes' tender beam. The echo of your footfalls fleet, Wert In that happy dream. There was a summer in love’s land, The skies were skies of June. While roses blushed on either hand. Beneath the golden moon; And all the sadness of the years. The frowns no smiles oould bloh The bitter doubts, the cruel fears. Were in that dream forget. I dreamed we two were friends again, And set my dream to song. So yon might listen to the strain That sought you’mid the throng; That yeu might list, perchance might sigh, Whilst idle tears wonld start, To feel It with the last good-bye Of one poor faithful heart. I dreamed we.two were friends again— Alas I *twas but a dream. That fled when o’er my window-pane Awoke the first red sunbeam, Oht as it brightened on my sight. And trembled o’er the floor, 1 whispered; “Vanish, happy light, For I wonld dream onoe more. —JEL iS Hiller in the Courier-Journal.

THE WITCH’S RING.

A very curious, straggling, sleepy old village iB Adingtune. Half a century behind the rest of the world, it still sits between the green hills of an Eastern State, with its elbows on its knees and its chin in its hands, musing on bygone days, when old King George held the land under sway and when, as its old folks Bagely remark, things were not as they are now. There are a great many old people in Addingtune—in fact, very few die young there. The atmosphere is so dreamy and peaceful that excitement cannot exist, and the wear and tear of the busy world is unknown, or at most only hums faintly over the hills like the buzzing of a fly on a sunny pane on a summer day. And so they still sit in their chimney-corners from year to year, and muse and doze, and dream, until they dream their lives away and take their final sleep. It was to an old crone of this description that I was indebted for my adventure. In the course of my idle ramblings about the village I chanced one day to peer over a crumbling wall and discover an old disused burial ground. The brown slabs were broken, prostrate, and scattered, with only here and there a forlorn, unsteady stone standing wearily, and waiting for the time to come when it, too, might fall down an rest with the sleepers beneath. Scrambling over the low wall I stooped about among the grass, pushing away the tangled masses of vines and leaves from the faoes of slabs that I might read the inscriptions there But the suns and storms of over 100 years had obliterated nearly all the letters, so that only portions of names and dates remained. Finally, down in a deep corner of the inclosure, where the weeds grew densest and the shade was darkest, I found an old stone, which, leaning forward, had protected its face from the storms, and on this stone I read the words: BARBARA CONWAIL, BORN 1670, DEED 17110. AGED 60 YEARS. Having been lawfully executed lor the practice of witchcraft. My curiosity was at once aroused. I inquired of several persons as to the history of this woman, but without suecess for a time. Finally, however, I found an old woman, who told me the history of Barbara Conwail, as it has been handed down by her ancestors: Living in an old stone house at the edge of the village, she was rarely seen —for no one ever crossed her thres-. hold—save when she was occasionally met by a frightened party of children idling away a summer afternoon’s holiday in the woods, when she would scowl and pass away, stooping along over the fields, gathering herbs with which to browser mighty postions. No one ever interfered with her, however, until a sad year came tp Adlingtune. An epidemic broke out and raged with a fury that nothing could withstand. People began to mutter that Barbara the Witch was the cause of it. Passing along the road she was stoned by a party of boys, to who she turned, and shaking her bony hand, shrieked that the curse was upon them. Two of the lads sickened and died in a few days, and though scores were carried away in a like manner, no especial i was attached to their death. Barbara began to be watched. They looked through Iter windows at midnight and found her bending over a seething cauldron, throwing in herbs, muttering cabalistic words, and stirring the mixture with what they reported to be a biiman bone. Old Barbara was working her charms. So when one morning a man came into town, braised and covered with mud, and testified that as he rode past old Barbara’s house at 12 o’clock the night before, he saw the Arch Fiend and the Witch in conversation upon the house-top, surrounded by flames and langhing fiendishly in the lurid glare as they shook their fists at the plaguestricken village sleeping below, his tale found ready credence. The fact that he was an habitual drunkard, and had on more than one occasion rolled from his horse in a drunken stnpor and passed the night in a ditch, dreaming wild dreams, did not in the least detract from the belief of the villagers in his account of this scene; and when he related how this pair of demons hod pounced upon him, and had first tortured and then thrown him senseless into a ditch, their indignation became uncontrollable. Old Barbara was tried,condemned,and hanged, thongh she protested in her innocence to the lasi The little snm of money found in her possession was nfted to-buy that gravestone—as no one would dare appropriate it—and to this day if any ene were bold enough to go ; to her grave at midnight on the same day of

the year on which she was hanged and say, “Barbara, I believe you were innocent,” at the same time stretching out his hand over the grave, she would appear to him and place in his hand a talisman. This talisman wonld bring good fortnrieaa long as he retained it, bnt at some timein his life the witch would, return to liijpa and claim her own. The old woman ended her story in a low, impressive monotone, which, with her earnestness and sincere belief in what she said, almost carried conviction to me in spite of reason. As I sauntered away, ridiculing those ignorant and superstitious village folk, I found myself almost unconsciously wandering back through the old burial ground to the witch’s grave. Carlessly glancing at the inscription, I was Surprised to find that very day was the 150th anniversary of her death, and still more surprised when the thought occurred to m© of watching at her grave that night. I ridiculed and scoffed the idea Where was my boasted common sense and incredulity? But, still returning ever, came that wayward thing oalled fancy—and it conquered. This world was wild and weird that night, when I stole forth from the village. The wind was moaning through the trees, and sobbing piteously; the black clouds were driven in broken patches across the sky, now letting down the moonshine and again shrouding all blackest night, and making the shadows chase each other about, and steal around corners upon one in a manner that made me wince in spite of myself. Climbing the low stone wall—rather nervously, I confess —I stole away through the sold, down-trodden graves, pushing through the weeds and briars as silently as possible, and making my way toward that dark, dreary corner where the old witch reposed. A graveyard at noon is a very different spot from a graveyard at midnight, especially if one is there to seek an ihterview with a spirit. I reached the place, and stood by the tomb. It still lacked a few minutes of 12, and as I stood there watching the moonlight flitting over the graves, I longed for a little ray to creep in with me. But nß—approaching and receding, and wavering all about me, it never touched this grave, but fled away as often as it approached, as thongh frightened at the black shadow forever lurking there. By-and-by the village clock tolled 12. As "the slow, tremenduous tone stole out on the night the wind ceased moaning, the clouds covered the lace of the moon, the insects stopped chirping, and when the last stroke was finished the almost unbearable silence was broken only by my own breathing, which I strove in vain to suppress. The darkness was intense, and I could see nothing. A terrible feeling of guilt and terror seized me, that I, a mortal, should be intruding there at such au hour. Melancholy I strove to speak the words I had been told, but my lips refused to form a sound. Still I stood in that awful black silence, chilled with fear, until with a mighly effort I reached out my arm over the grave and grasped—a hand. It was only for an instant—not that, for it was jerked away in a twinkling—but long enough to feel how warm and velvety it was and how small. Not that I lingered there to reflect upon these novel qualities in the baud of a ghost, and an old witch at that* for you altogether mistake my bravery in supposingit; hut it was after I had cleared the old wall at a bound and was out on the moonlit road, walking at a rattling good pace toward town, that I recalled it. From a state of intense cold I had changed to burning heat. The touch of those soft fingers thrilled me through as with an electric shock, and I walked faster still in my exeitenfent. Gradually the consciousness forced itself upon me that I held something in my clenched hands. There was first a glitter and then a sparkle, as the moonlight fell into the hollow of my upraised hand, and I saw there a glittering ring set with flashing stones. The icicles began slipping down my back again, and I hurried on. Some persons may be inclined tp deride my nervousness on this occasion, hut I assure such that I am not naturally a timid man. I have a medal hanging in my room at home which asserts that I am not a timid man, and above all I had always been particularly void of superstitions fear; but truth compels me to say that I not only lighted ail the lights on reaching my room at the little inn that night, but turned them very high into the bargain; and that I made a systematic inspection of all the closets and removed from its peg a long cloak that was hanging in - a very suggestive position on the Avail. This done, I sat down—with my back aguinst the wall—and examined the ring. It was a quaint old ring, curiously carved and massive. The setting was composed of several small colored stones set in a circle &bout a large diamond. My financial circumstances had rendered it unnecessary for me to acquaint myself with precious stones and their A-alues, so that I could*, only surmise that the ring Avas sonieAvhat val uable. Considering the excited condition of my nerves by this time, it avos not strange tliat I should start when my ejfes fell upOn the name that was inscribed in quaint letters inside the ring —“Barbara.” I sat and mused upon the whole adventure —what the crone had told me—the graveyard, the ring, and (this Avas returned to me the oftenest) the thrilling touch of that soft hand in the darkness. Perhaps I should say right here that I called myself an old bachelor, and had never been in love—that is, with any mortal. I did not think that I was devoid of sentiment or feeling, for I often dreamed of love and worshipped beautiful things of my own fancy, bnt my life had been thrown among hoys and men, and woman was far away and a mystery. A motherless-home, a stern father, a hard-working student’s lif® at oollege, a stranger straggling for bread and reputation in a great city—one can peroeivh how it could be that I had made few 1 acquaintances among women. In reality I was only 25, bnt much experience had made me feel older ; so, a s I s&kj, ! called myself a bachelor.

M-Wv"- „ I hay® given this brief history of myself in order to prepare the way for another confession. I was falling in love with the owner of tljat soft, warm hand. It is preposterous, bnt it is true. I began to doubt imy reason. In vain I tried to remember that Barbara the witch, was an old, ugly woman. The only picture I could call up was that of a beautiful young girl with—but words fail me; only she was far from ghastly, but was as warm and substantial and as full of life as that hand had seemed to be. The fire-irons fell with an unearthly clatter, and startled mb out of my dreams. I went to bed to soqthe my nerves with sleep, and lay awake most of the night with the lamps burning. Fortune smiled npon me from that night. Two years of busy city life had passed, and old Barbara’s talisman Avas unreclaimed, when one day—do you believe in love at first sight? Well, if the first appearance of Walter Wyman’s sister had not conquered me as she stood under the parlor lamps, a revelation ol beauty and youth, the touch of her hand when she welcomed her brother’s friend would have enslaved me forever. Never had a touch so thrilled me since—since I held the Aivitch’s hand in the graveyard. The same peculiar shock passed through me, and the memory of that spectral night came over me like a flash. But I did not start out to tell a love story. Let me briefly say that I fell in love, hopelessly and ridculously in love, and that I acted just like all lovers have done since the world began. It dosen’t matter much about a man’s age. At 27 he will conduct himself pretty much as he would have done at 17, and so I wrote verses and sighed, and tormented myself Avith a thousand hopes and fears, and grew hot and cold by turns, and wonderfully timid, and prided myself on concealing all, when, as a matter of fact, the state of mv feelings was perfectly apparent to all my acquaintances. i Matters Avere in this interesting state, when one day an opportunity occurred of which I availed myself with a degree of skill and presence of mind that I am proud of to this day. It all came about through my asking the young lady il she believed in ghosts. “I suppose 1 should,” said she, laughing, “considering my experience,” Leave a Avoman alone to make an evasive answer. Of course’ I implored an explanation, and she related to me the following story: “It AA its anout two years ago when a party of girls, just home from school, Avere visiting a friend down in the country. One of the girls had heard a foolish old story about a witch’s grave, and some nonsense about her annual appearance, and a talisman, and Avhen I expressed my incredulity, they braved me to put it to the test. What is the matter? The place? A little town called Adlingtune. “Foolishly I accepted their challenge and received a terrible fright. I carried out the instructions and stretched my arm over the grave. It was so dark I could see nothing, but some one seized my hand. I was so benumbed with fear that I could not cry out, but could only fly through the lonely graveyard to Avhere my trembling companions were awaiting me in the field. It AA-as a foolish adA-euture, for I fell ill, and it cost me a valuable ring, Avhich Avas left to me by poor Aunt Barbara. ‘For her little namesake.’ she said, when she sent it across the sea to me. You see, the ring was a little large for my finger', and was pulled off by--by “By me,” I interrupted, taking the lost ring from my pocket. It was time for Barbara (I forgot to say that was her name) to be started now. i hope I may say that I came out strong on that occasion. I told my story in a very impressive way, lingered over the effect of the Avitch’s hand on my heart, spoke of the good fortune the talisman had brought me, made a very pretty allusion to Barbara the witch reclaiming her own—for she Avas not a witch, after all, as I could testify, hav» ing felt her chfirnis—and finally no(| only offered to return the ring, but tq give myself into the bargain. She took both.— F. It IL, in San Francisco Argonaut.

His Worst Enemy.

There was a little party uj> town the other night, and at one time during the evening there was a sort of pause. Nobody could think of anything to say, and if they did, they wouldn’t. Finally some one proposed that a song be sung, but this seemed to fall flat too. After another long pause Erastus Plunkett got up and said that he knew a.song, and would sing it. He did so, and everybody Avho heard him seemed to be affected with a desire to get mustard plasters and put on their stomaehs as quickly as possible. » After lie was through there was a sigh of relief, and young Woggles, a friend of his, took the blushing Plunkett into one comer. “Say, Plunk,” said he, “who told you you could sing ?” “Why—er—my—er—my chnm, Chqlmondelv Plug told me I was a pretty fair s-inger.” .... “Well, you Avant to lay for him and kill him as soon as you can, that’s all.” “Kill him! what for ?” “He’s the worst enemy you eA-er had.” —Evansville Argus. >

What is Evolution!

This word is in constant use in all the literatures of the world. Indeed with some writer it is as important a' YFord as law, force, nature, and even God. Herbert Spencer has helped to make it fashionable, and this is the definition of it: ~ “Evolution is an integration of matter and concomitant dissipation of motion, during whi6h the matter passes from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity to a definite, coherent heterogeneity, and during which the retained motion undergoes a parallel transformation.” __ J, To the average reader this is about as clear as mu 4,; but its meaning Seems to be that there is a process in nature which unfolds or develops higher from lower types of existence. , It corr«WDonds to .the word progress as applied xo the course of history in human affairs.—pemorest's Monthly.

AGRICULTURAL.

When horses are compelled to remain exposed to storms at this season the use of a rubber blanket, with flannel lining, will be of valuable assistance in the prevention of colds and lung diseases. In certain Freneh beat-raising districts it is’ customary to sprinkle the young roots with liquid organiq manures. In other districts ammonia sulphate and nitrate of soda are used. The yield to the acre is considerably increased by this practice, but at the expense of the saccharine quality of the roots. Good grooming is essential to good digestion. Cleanliness of the skin is as necessary for the health of the horse as for that of a man. The irritation of the brushing may be too severe. There is strong objection to the use of a harsh curry-comb. If a good stiff brush is used daily there will be no use for a ■wire-toothed comb or other harsh implement. The rubbing of the “running gear” of a horse is as essential as that of an engine. Correspondent Orange County Farmer: We know of no better remedy to destroy Canada thistles than a brood bow. Take the ring out of her nose and leave her to root and work on the field all winter in open weather and only sparingly fed and our word for it. by spring she will have the job finished, If the seeding is extensive, then employ one or more brood sows, and it will be found to be one of the cheapest and most Effective remedies for ridding a farm of this pest that could be desired, for we have tried it to our entire satisfaction on several occasions. Speaking of the excellence of the American merino sheep, Mr. William Hays, of Australia, who spent several months in this country on a tour of inspection, states that such is their healthiness and strength of constitution that ewes will raise lambs when past the age of sixteen years, and that he saw one twenty-one years old, the fleece of which weighed ten pounds. Diseases common to Australian flocks, such as fluke, anthrax and foot-rot, are unknown among the American sheep, v hich is duo to generous feeding and careful housing. Exposure to weet is not allowed, and the best care is given. Cleanliness in the Pig'pen. —The hog does not perspire to any appreciable extent, at least excepting through the peculiar orifice back ot and just above the feet. When these are closed up from any cause, the animal soon becomes sick. For this reason cleanliness in the pigpen is essential. The hog in warm weather will Avallpw in mud, but this Avill rarely or never close these perspiring apertures, because it contains enough sand or gravel to Avork itself out. But a hog should never be kept in pens so small that it is obliged to walk through its own excreta. If given half a chance piggie will sco to it that its feeding and sleeping places are kept clean. Professor Richardson states that among our wheats the highest per oentage of albuminoids is 17.15, while a Russian wheat. groAvn in Minnesota, contained 24.56 per cent., twenty-four different specimens averaging 19.48 per cent., the lowest percentage being 10.48. The wheat groivn in the East is the poorest, and a regular gradation from East to West is found until the Pacific coast is reached, where there is a falling off. The best grain is produced between the Mississippi River and the mountains. As the albuminoids are regarded as the most valuable portions of the grains its deficiency lessens the value of the crop. Certain Varieties of Fruits. —Such, for instance, as the Concord grape, the Blackcap raspberry, Snyder blackberry, etc,, will succeed and give a tolerably fair return of fruit under neglect; and for this reason they have been recommended to farmers to plant. But farmers should not from this understand that they are to be encouraged in neglect. They as a class are too prone to neglect their small fruits; indeed many of them are so careless about them that they even fail to obtain fruit from these iron-dads. They should knorv that those above named are just like other fruits in one respect—and just like everything else, men and women included—are Aery thankful for kind and generous treatment, and will make returns accordingly. Culture of Wheat. —The greatest enemy of the wheat crop is too much water. It may be said that the wheat root is more susceptible to injury from too much water that many of us believe. Too be sure, there is a general impression that an overdose of water is bad, but the full force of the impression is seldom felt as it deserves to be. Water lying around roots does not always kill wheat plants, but many of the roots are injured, and the few that are left are not able to do the work that all were intended to take part in doing. If any one will dig up a wheat plant in the spring which has stood all winter in a Avet place he will see exactly how this is. Only living roots close to the .surface, and all beloAV this may be injured. The English seem to understand this water injury better than we do, and provide against it on wheat lands by numerous furrows; in some cases of flattish land one-twentieth of. the whole area may be counted as surface furrows; and yet Avith this waste of ground, as some would say, they beat us considerably in the number of bushels they get per acre. It is supposed by many that whether we have a good wheat season or a bad one depends more on the quantity of grain we get at various seasons, or of the condition of the ground or of the plants at the time the rain falls. If it goes away through the ground rapidly it is good for the plant, though in large quantities; but if it lies long it is an injury. Thus, if a piece of land id rather fiat and the ground is frozen | deep and stays frozen after the tipper fefls thawed, and rain or melted snow is let in; the frozen bottom keeps the water from passing away, and so ityujy resulta to the roots. On sloping grofiMkthe water passes out on the lower position, and in' these cases not so much injury results. There are, no doubt, many causes which conspire to injure crops; bqt this overdose of water i h very likely to be one of them, and

... . » .. • . . . • ■ - - <*' - --> ‘W- f 'V’pi it Avill be wise for all those who are interested in wheat cultrtto tqtakeevery precaution to carry off water may fall on the land. t)pen ditches or plow furrows, as many cT6*; they are very useful to this end. to this carefully, and it will be found that wheat culture will be as productive as it eA-er was, and will continue to be mamown Telegraph. )

HOUSEKEEPERS’ HELPS.

Saratoga Potatoes.'— Take raw potatoes, pare |them, and Shave as thin as possible. Put the savings into a Wire basket, and it iijT'ixnling fat until they grow crisp and fprl •' * Fig Cake.—Two cupfuls of sugar, three eggs, one cupful of milk, half a cup butter, three cupfuls of flour, three teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Bake in four layers. For'filling, take one pound of figs (chopped very fine), a cupful and a half of filter, and half a cupful of sugar; and cook till soft and smooth. It will keep a long time, if top and sides of iced. Pudding Sauge.— A 4ance, particularly nice with suet ’pudding, is made by dissolving one teaspoQnful of corn starch in a little water; add to it a coffeecupful of boiling water, with nearly a cupful of light brown sugar; let this boil for ten minutes. Take one cup of tart cider, one tablespoonful of butter, and the yolks of two well-beaten eggs; let them and add to the boiling sauce. ‘ Corn — This rule for corn bread must be carefully followed to procure the ex#Ueiit possible result: Take two tabtespoonfulsf of Indian meal, two of molasses, one not at all heaping, one of soda, one and a half teacups of buttermilk, a good pinch of salt; thicken this until it is about like a thick paste with rye flour; bake in a moderate oven for thirty-five minutes. Chocolate Puffs. —Chocolate puffs, that are nice to mix with cake in the basket, are made by beating 'to a stiff froth the whites of two eggs; stir in with them gradually two teacupfuls of powdered sugar and two tablespoonfuls of cornstarch; mix two ounces of chocolate, which you have grated, with the cornstarch. Bake these on buttered tins for fifteen minutes in a moderate oven. They should be dropped on the tins from a large spoon. White Cake.—^ One of the most reliable recipes for white layer cake is this: One cup of butter beaten to a cream, with two cups of sugar; add one cup of sweet milk/three cups of flour, with two teaspoonfuls of baking powder mixed with it and the well-beaten whites of five eggs. This is also delicious if baked in a loaf, with a large cup of chopped raisins in it; put them in last, reserving a little of the flour to sprinkle over them. Cream Fritters. —One pint of milk, the yolks of six and whites of two eggs, two tablespoonfuls of sugar, half a pint of flour, three heaping tablespoonfuls of butter, half a teaspoonful of salt, a slight flavoring of lemon, orange, nutmeg, or anything else you please. Put half of the milk on in the double boiler and mix the flour to a smooth paste with the other half. When the milk boils stir this into it. Cook for five minutes, stirring constantly, then add the butter, sugar, salt, and flavoring. Beat the eggs well, and stir them into the boiling mixture. Cook one minute. Butter a shallow cake pan and pour in the mixture half an inch deep in the pan. Set it away to cool, and when cold cut it into small squares. Dip these in beaten egg and in crumbs, place in the frying basket and plunge into boiling fat until they are of a golden brown. Arrange on a hot dish, sprinkle sugar over them, and serve very hot.

The Hotel Porter’s Story.

“Unless the man happens to be rich anil has traveled about a good deal he ■will never go to the clerk for information. The average hotel guest will stop a bell boy. or a bootblack, or go to the newstand for information first, or, as is most likely, come to me. The other day a dudish-looking thing came in here with an umbrella cover on him for a Newmarket, and after waiting around for a while stepped up to the baggage book while I bad turned my back. I had seen him before; he was a new reporter. So I asked one of the guests whom I knew to go up to him and tell the dude to send for his baggage. He did it fine. The young dude turned to him with an awful face and said he didn’t know anything about any baggage. The guest replied indignantly—he made out he was indignant—‘l don’t want any of your impudence. You are the porter here and I want my baggage,’ Well, sir, there wasn’t room enough for the dude to get out. He ran against the columns and over the chairs and into the spittoons. The last I saw of him ho was trying to open a storm door the Wrong way.”— Chicago Herald.

Yery Serious Case.

A Mew York dude was suddenly taken violently ill and a physician was hastily summoned. After looking at his tongue and feeling of his pulse, the Usual formula, the doctor remarked: “He has evidently, been overloading his stomach. My dear' sir,” he continued, rousing the patient, “can you tell me ate to-day for dinner?” “Nothing, doctah, but a glaass of watah and part of a toothpick,” replied the sick dude. “H’m,’’mused the physician, “that is strange. His faintness certainly comes from a disordered stomach.” Then he suddenly said: “Bring me his cane.” The cane was brought him, and after a careful examination he laid it aside, with the remark: “It is as I thought. A 10-cent cane, and he has sucked the varnish off the head. Give him three drops of milk every four hours, and be careful not to exceed the dose. Fll call again tomorrow.” —Philadelphia Call. '* The century plant, which takes 100 years to ripen in the North, takes but twelve years to mature in California, and takes only five in Mexico. * This world and the- next rlesemble the east and the west; you cannot draw near to one without turning your back on the other. }

PITH AND POINT.

Eating onion makes one’s breath strong. This is a hint to opmsumptives.—CarlPretteVa Weekly ''The latest novelty is a line of street cars in Central Asia, drawn by camels. Every member of the Christian church shonld net fail to load the “camel light.” —Paris Beacon. She —“l am fond of poetry.” He—- “ Are you, indeed; they are so distressing. But then lam not troubled much with them, and ma does all the cooking.”— Chicago Herald. i. A man in New York is writing a book entitled, “No Tongue can Tell.” We’ll bet our last year’s socks against a piece of goat liver that that man never was married.— Newman Independent A French philosopher says a woman may love or hate, but she can never be indifferent. Guess he has never seen the look that comes over a woman’s face when her husband asks if there is such a thing as a shirt button in the house. A couple of Yassar girls were found by a professor fencing with broomsticks in a gymnasium. He reminded them' that such an accomplishment would not aid them in seenrihg husbands. “It will help us in keeping them in,” replied one of the girls. Down in Pennsylvania they have sociables where you can kiss all the girls you want to at 5 cent apiece. Pennsylvania evidently believes in keeping down the prices on luxuries, even if they have to whoop it up high -on dog taxes and other necessaries of life. A man down South hired an old darkey to work for him and never paid him. After three years of all work and no pay, the darkey sued his employer. During the trial the lawyer said to him: “Well, Uncle Pete, didn’t the defendent pay you anything at all for your services ?” “You mean de boss, sah?” “Yes, I mean the boss.” “No sah. I wu’ked fob dat man free yeahs, sah, an’ all I got wuz fowty fo' cents, sah, an’ fo’ de Lawd, I swah, sah, I’d a nebbah got dat, es I hadn’t a bin powahful schemey.”— Merchant Traveler. A Patent Storm Indicator has been patented. This is a Avant long felt. Now when a man stays out late all he has to do is to take his storm indicator out of hi# pocket and take observations before entering the house. If his wife is up waiting to receive him the indicator will make it known by violent agitation, and all the man has to do is to keep out of the house. If she has retired and is asleep, the idicator makes it known by a soft purring similar to that of a cat. Then it is safe to go in; no storm Brewing. This pocket storm indicator is indeed a great blessing to the husband who visits the club or lodge,— Peck's Sun. Josephine Pollard declares: “The bold and the timid, the ha wit and the dove Astonish e:ich other by lulling in love. Oh. this falling in love! This tailing in love! There’s nothiug so tunny as falling in loye!.” And then again she says: ‘‘Oh, this falling in love! Thiß tallied in lov •! There’s nothing so upsetting as fall Ing iirtove!" We don’t know what Josephine’s experience may have been, but we once saw a man fall down two flights of stairs with a marble top bureau, and he seemed to be getting about as much fun and upsetting out of the seance as ever we saw anybody get out of a breach of promise case. However, we may be too prosaic and realistic to appreciate the true poetry of things.— Burdette. OWED TO MY BOARDING HOUSE. Air— The Otd Oaken Bucket How dear to my purse is the boarding-house racket, Its sour-mash potato. Its roast beef so dry 1 ; Its dough-nut so hard that a hammer won’t crack it; It’s fire-proof. 15ark-nnn)ber, dried-apnle pie. Oh, tho piecrust soclnmmy,Hogroasy.so flammyl No pen can do justice to boarding house pie! The “tea-dust” Bohen and clilccory Mocha: The fradnlent bread made of napler mache; Tho grocery cracker so freckled and smoky; The burglar-proof butter, so brindled and g ay Oh, the strong, long-haired butter—so utterly utter, Piecse call in the barber—or take it away! lam taking French lesveof my prose"t location; But ere I depart—for my landlady’s sake— As a souvenir precious, of lasting duration, I’U hare ray boots hail-soled with boarding honse steak. Oh, the highway is rough; and the steak, sure, is tougli; It shall tramp whilo I live, and then dance at my w^ke. —Texas Siftings.

Revenge of the Gotham Dude.

A dudish young husband in this city —I have to .much pity for him to give his name — to his once pleasant home early one evening, and as he entered the door he was nearly struck dumb at the sight which met his gaze. He saw a little love scene going on between his fair wife and another dudish young man. Whether their boldness was due to the fact that the husband was a craven coward or not I can’t say; but, at any rate, the affectionate pair continued to embrace each other. The husband Avanted revenge in, some way, but he hadn’t pluck enough* to pitch into the fellow who avrs enjoying “stolen sweets.” Seeing his rival’s silk umbrella in the hat-rack, he seized it spitefully, and, as he broke it across his knee, he exclaimed: “There, now, I hope it will rain real bard to-morrow.” —New York Truth.

Money No Object.

“I am on my wedding tower,” said a conntryman, entering a Chestnut street dry goods store, “and my wife 'ls waiting for me outside. I' want to buy some socks for myself and she is too bashful to come in.” “All right, sir,” responded.tlje clerk, “I will be glad to shovr-yquj-o'ar half hose.” “Well, yon see,” went on the epuntryman, “a weddin’ tower doesn't occur only about once in a man’s lifetime, you know, and I don’t belieye in scrimpin’ on such an occasian. ,So you needn’t, show me any half Let me look at your whole Call : ' '* •' There is a Jewish penman ip Vienna who writes 400 Hebrew letters on one grain ©f wheat. In order to furnish the Emperor with satisfactory . evidence of his extraordinary he has Avritten the Jewish prayer &r Jhe Imperial family on the narrow edge of an ordinary visiting card.