Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 April 1885 — Page 2

A OOY COQUET. , ,' Seek!* Move*, leab me, sabJ Don't be crowdin' quite so plus: Luff dst lamp alone, too, please sab, Blso dey's gwine to be a f use. * Took dat han' from off my shoulder— P'raps ye t’ink I’m no-count trash J Kbcry night ye get more bolder— Tlnk yer s % irt to be so brash. iWhat d’ye praise dat Calllne foahf ir dat gal's so mighty dear; - l Lead dia kitchum I dar's de doah. Court dat CalUne-what do I hear? Course Ikear-I—don't be leabin'BuOornufftor’ilea saintl Ain’t yer shamed yo’self for bleabln Caiune’s ban sum when she hain’t? Please now, don’t git wuss'n ebbor— Keep dar now-0,.★e11. If rer'tarminod— kiss met nobberl Stop dis Instep or I’ll yelll. Well, If you ain’t’tamed bashful! Pahatrl who’d hab a mau with slceers? Dar, now, don’t git ober rashful, Fo‘ de faok I’ll box your ears. Bless met whit de use of ’slstln’. Case yer boun* to hab yer way; Not afore one week—now list on— Say Jestone week from dis day? , Marry nowl an’ what’s de harm in it? Zeekei Moses! why fo’ shame I How I blush—well, if yer ’(armined—(Dat beats Calline jes’ de same).

THE GOURD. ■ 4. BT TILL I, VISCHER. . The gallant knight, in days of old. Sang gay!y flagon songs; The monarch drained his gold And laughed his people’s wrongs; With goblets flowing to the brim, Bacchantes drank their wine, But no alluring rosy rim Brings song to harp of mine. The soldier loves his old canteen. And sounds in song Us praise. Then lover toasts his mistress-queen In wine-begotten lays; Tbe soul of poesy's outpoured . . , Alike to cup and king. And ail forget the brown old gourd : They drauk from at the spring. There's happiness in banquet halls. Amid the bright and gay. Where brilliant s ing the soul enthralls And wit and wine hold sway, _ Bat all the joy in mem'ry stored No sweeter thought can bring Than those of draughts lrom out the gourd, With Nell, beside the 6pring.

THE CURIOUS SCRIBE.

CHAPTER I. I will not bore yon with a long story. I never told a long story. No one can say that Eli Buck has ever told stretched-ont anecdotes to a gaping company. Modest? Well, I’m not exactly bashfnl, but I haven’t that solfposh to which many a man owes his prominence. I was educated for a lawyer. In fact, I practiced the devilish profession for a short time. I say dev? uish because, during my short, and as Brete Harte would say, unhallowed career as a lawyer, I was fined for contempt of court and was mercilessly thumped by a witness who insisted that my pointless questions had led him unwittingly into falsehood. I shall not, however, discuss my career as a lawyer. It is of myself as an editor that I desire to speak. From the time when my recollection seemed to come ont of a dark closet and flit, like a miller, around the candle of newly awakened existence, I have had a great fondness for newspapers. My father often said that this predilection for hurried print would send me to the poor-house, but I found consolation in the reflection that considerable ingenuity would find long employment in arranging a poorer house than that which my father owned. Well, at last I secured a printing office. It was bought at a Sheriffs side. At different times, many papers of different names, had been issued from the worn hand-press, bnt waving aside the entire list of back-numbered christenings, I preferred to call my sheet the Arkansaw Cat Fish. This was surely an odd name—a kind of “odds-fish” name—and it was not, as an ignorant and heartless wag, who never paid his subscription, remarked, intended for exj elusive circulation among the colored people. One day while I was hard at work, an old man, very tall, with white hair and shrunken cheeks, came into the office. “I am very anxious to secure work.” eaid he. “I am the oldest compositor in the State. I bave worn myself out on daily papers, and now I wish to work on a weekly, where, instead of Buffering under gaslight, I can spend my nights in quiet. I ask for but little remuneration—a boarding place and a decent burial. Withers is my name.” I looked at him to determine if his mind were right, but in his calm eye there was no traces of insanity. “My dear sir,” said I, “do you expect to die so soon ?” “I have consumption,” he replied, “and my course is nearly run; but I am prepared. I regret no past; fear no future.” “It is true that I need some one, for •with my short experience I am a very slow compositor, and it is true that I am not able to pay an active printer.” “I can set up your paper with but little trouble. Say the word and I will take off my coat.”

CHAPTER H. The old man was an excellent compositor, wonderfully correct and untiring in his effort to please. * All day he would sit on a high stool, putting tip type with a regular click. His closest approach to a smile was the grim expression that crossed his face when he b nt himself over the “case” and coughed with a hollow sound. He kept a bottle of cod liver oil setting on the press, and three times a day he would take up the bottle and drink with as much zest, it appeared to me, as ‘ though he were imbibing choice wine. He slept in the office. One night while we were Bitting by the stove, he looked up suddenly and asked:«, “What is your religion ?" “1 do not belong to any church.” Which church do you favor ?” “I favor them all, for they all point to a place of final rest ” “And a final liellT said he. “Yes, the most of them believe in a hell, though not so strongly, I fancy, as they did before education became so general.” “Not so much as they did,” he assented. “Many of them do not now believe that bell is necessary to salvation, but there must be a difference in the treatment cf good and bad souls. Supposes man, who never harmed any one,. should kill hiniself ? Do you think bis soul would find rest ?” \ \

. “That’s a question upon which I would not likt to express an opinion." t “It if a question though," he continued, “which ooncerns me very much. My suffering daily increases, but I don’t see that I am approaching the grave with that degree of acceleration which promises an early relief from pain. I have often thought that in my case, a man would be justifiable in taking his own life. It looks to me as though I am relentlessly tortured.” I hardly knew what reply to make, for I felt that the old man had cause to complain, but after a few moments of reflection, I said: “Wait No matter how much you may be racked by pain, wait You surely cannot live much longer.” A light of encouragement shone in his eyes as he said: “Ah, those are pleasant words.” iAfter this I fancied that he was not so restless. He continued to take medicine, to alky pain rather than to prolong life, he said. He wrote several strangely readable articles for the Cat Fish. I didn’t know, that with all my experience in handling manuscripts, I have even seen a handwriting so peculiar as his. A number of our citizens who saw it remarked its dissimilarity to any chirography they had ever beheld, ond among them the old man was known as the curious scribe. , • One evening as I was about to leave the office, he followed me to the door. “Mr. Buck,” said he, “I think now that my time is short.” He looked as though he wanted to smile, but that his poor old lips had -lost the movement necessary to the reflection of so pleasing an expression. “Why do you think so. Mr. Withers?” v '■ . “I dreamed last night that I was dead. I thought that I lay down in quiet rest, like a tired man who goes to bed.” ■** ■; ~T~7

“I don’t think that you should sleep here alone.” “Yes,” he replied. “The presence of anyone would disturb my meditations. I have and impression that I will die suddenly. An attendant would do no good, and would rob the first few hours of my long coveted sleep of that deep solitude which I desire shall surround me.” As I was walking down the road toward the house where I boarded on long time and short rations, I met ’Squire Duval. “Well, Buck,” when I had stopped and shaken hands with him, “how is the curious scribe getting along?” “Almost cheerful in the thought that he is soon to leave us,” I replied. “Strange old man,'mighty queer, bnt I don’t think that his mind’s altogether out o’ whack. Him an’ me agrees putty well here o’ late, fur I’ve mighty nigh made a spiritualist outen him. ’Tuther day when he ’peered to be so dead sot on suicide, I said to him, says I, ‘Withers, don’t do it. If you do, your grade will be low. Live on, even if you do suffer, an’ your grade will be high.’" The next morning, as I was going to the office, I overtook the Sqnire near the place where I had met him the day before. “B'leve I’ll go with you,” said he, “an’ have a few moments’ chat with the old feller." There was no lock on the office door, and lifting the latch, we entered. Great God I The old man’s body lay on the ?fl6or. His head, with the face turned toward us, lay ou the imposing stone. A bloody—an awful scene! On the stone, near the head, lay a sheet of paper covered with the old man’s peculiar writing. Almost breathlessly, I read these words: “ Y6u will be surprised to find my head up here and my body on the floor. You do not see how it is possible for a man to cat off his head and place it where he chooses and then throw his body on the floor. It is sigular, but you see for yourself. How would you go about such a performance ? Ten to one you would fail.”

CHAPTER lIL Never before or since have I seen such excitement in a town. It was useless to deny that the note had been written by the curious scribe, but the old man could not have entirely severed his own head from his body, and, even could he have done so, he could not have placed it on the stone. Why any one should have murdered him no one could conceive. Expert detectives came and spent days in looking for a clue, but went away puzzled. ’Squire Duval declared that the old man had been aided by bad spirits, in the execution of the bloody design, yet this, while it may have found ready supporters among people who believed in supernatural agencies, was ridiculed by the Coroner and laughed at by the jury. . Some time previous to the arrival of the old man, I had incurred the mortal enmity of a fellow named Givens. This soulless wretch, biding his time, swore out a warrant for my arrest, charging, me with the murder of the curious scribe. Of course I was indignant, but I soon saw that the people paid but little attention to my protestations of innocence. I was arraigned for examination before a Justice of the Peace. I had ’Squire Duval and the roan with whom I boarded, introduced S 3 witnesses. The ’Squire’s testimony amounted to no ting, but the testimony of my landlord made my blood run cold. ‘‘Mr. Buck went to bed at the usual hour,” said he, “but about midnight he got up and went out When he came back, which he did after some time, I heard him washing his hands, and at morning When I went to the wash shelf on the porch I saw blood Rtains in the bottom of the bowl.” The truth is, unable to sleep I had gotten up. I went out, lighted my pipe, and walked around, smoking. XV I was returning to the house, I came in contact with the end of a rail which projec ed over the fence, forcing a few drops of bloo<f from my nose. When I made the statement, the people looked suspiciously at me. My lawyer made an able Bpeech, dwelling on the fact that I had nothing against him; and although 1. had known him to lie something of a materialist, yet supported the ’Squire’s opinion insomuch that as the old man had unquestionably written the note, he might nave cut off his own head. < The magistrate decided that the evidence was sufficiently strong to justify

my <3e£ention, and, as the case was not bailable, I was taken to jail. I bad great hopes that the grand jury would fail to return an indictment, but I was disappointed. When it became known that the charge Against me was sustained by the gentlemen in secret session, a mob assembled and it was with great difficulty that the sheriff could keep me from the clutches of the yelling avengers. f» One morning, just before the meeting of the court before which I was to be tried, the sheriff eintered the jail And said: “Mr. Buck, you are free. Bead this letter. It was written by a crazy man, well known in this community, and was addressed to the circuit judge.” The surprise was so gladdening^—the thought of regaining my liberty and once more taking my place among res spected men, filled me with such a de-’ sire to throw up my hat that it was with difficulty that I could repress my exultation long enough to read the letter. The document which effected my liberation ran as follows: “Judge, while no one is bothering me, and while I sit alone in my room, number 102 left wing, I will drop youJA few lines. We used to go to school toj gether didn’t we, judge ? Well, some time ago—l don’t kqow how long for sometimes it seems ten years and then ten minutes—l slipped away from the asylum. They had me the privilege of walking out. I got son a train and went up to your town. It was night and nobody saw me. After I had walked around awhile, I got down on my knees and lapped water ont of a puddle. Yes, I did. I saw a light in a house and I went in. s An old man with white hair was in the house. It tickled me to look at him. While we were talking, a funny idea occurred to me: ‘Suppose the people were to come here in the morning and find that old man’s head on the rock table, What would they say ? It would puzzle ’em if he was to leave a note saying that he had cut off his head and put it there. I could put his head there and write the note, but the people might know his handwriting and detect the forgery. I won’t commit forgery. It is wrong. They send the folks to the penitentiary' for forgery. I’ll get him to ’ write the note.’ That is tfhe way the funny idea ran through my head. I began to talk pleasantly to him, told him that I owned a farm a short distance from town. Well, I do, judge. I won’t tell a lie unless it is to help along a great cause. ‘Will you do me a great favor?’ I asked. He said that he would. ‘I want to play a joke on my little girl,’ said L ‘She can read and write, but I can’t. The other day she whipped her doll. I told her that she ought not to be so cruel, that if she didn't mind the doll would commit suicide. Now, I tell yon what lam going to do. lam going to cut off the doll’s head and put it on a stool and leave a note, explaining the funny situation. While she is weeping over the death of her doll I will take out a nicer one which I shall have handy, and make her glad. Won’t you please write down the words I dictate?’ He laughed at the idea, said it was the first time he had laughed for years. I told him that J was glad to afford him any amusement, and that I would be grateful 4f he would write the wdrds for me. IJe did so and I went ont. I slipped into a store, through a window end got a new butcher knife. Then I went back and found the old man reading. We talked a while and then, when he wasn’t noticing me, I grabbed him by the throat and forced him to the floor. He was too weak to struggle much and I had very little trouble in cutting his throat, but cutting off ki3 head was not such an easy job. I got it off after a while, and'had to laugh when I put it on the rock table, and when I put the note beside it. It tickled me so much That I had to blow out the light. I shut the door carefully and went away. I jumped on a freight train and rode where nobody could see me. When I got off, I threw nearly all of my clothes in the river. By morning I was at the asylum. They had been looking for me. Since then they won’t let me go out I showed this letter to the superintendent and expected him to laugh, but be did’t. He can’t see a joke. I asked him to hand it back, that I wanted to write a few more lines. He did so. If you see the old man’s head, it will tickle you.” * * * m * * The people vlio would have been willing to bang me, offered to generously support my paper if I would remain, but the town was distasteful to me. I am now engaged in farming, and am reasonably contented, bnt I shudder every time I see an old man with while hair .—Arkansaw Traveler.

Why Bees Work in the Dark.

A lifetime may be spent in investigating the mysteries hidden in a bee-hive and still half of the secrets would be undiscovered. The formation of the cell has long been a problem for the mathematician, while the changes which the honey undergoes offer at least an equal interest to the chemist. Every one knows what honey fresh from the comb is like. It is a clear yellow syrup, without a trace of solid sugar in ft. Upon straining, however, it gradually assumes a crystalline appearance—it candies, as the, saying is, and ultimately becomes a solid mass of sugar. It has not been suspected that this Change is due to a photographic action; that the same agent which determines the formation or camphor and lodine crystals in a bottle causes the syrup honey to assume a crystalline form. This, however, is the case. M. Schiebler, an eminent chemist, has inclosed honey in stoppered flasks, some of which he has kept in perfect darkness, while others have been exposed to the light. The invariable result has been that the sunned portion rapidly crystallizes, while that kept in the dark has remained perfectly liquid. And this is why bees work in perfect darkness, and why they are so careful to obscure the glass windows which are sometimes placed in their -hives. The existence of their young depends on the liquidity of the saccharine food {iresentd to them, and if light wras slowed access to this, the syrup would gradually acquire a more or less solid consistency; it would seal up the cells, and in all probability prove fatal to the inmates of the hiv&

Another Missouri Horror.

The night express on the Missonri Pacific Kailroad was boarded at Parsons, Kansas, by an old lady carrying three large, black baskets and an oilcloth grip. She found herself" in the smoking car, and when interviewed by the conductor demanded a sleeper. ,1 “I'm on the route to St. Louis to see my darter Jane," she said, “an’ Pm goin’ to git there'in mod derate shape an’ style. I don't git to ride on the keers only once in an while ockasionally, an’ what's the damage?” “Two dollars.” "Take my things right alopg and head me for the bedroom.” i So the old lady was piloted safely over the yawning chasms between the swaying coaches, and at last was dumped bag, baggage, and bundles on the broad plush seat of a Pullman car. “Where’s the landlord?” she asked surveying the partially curtained apartment with reverential awe. The approach of the porter, however, answered all practical purpose, “Gracious, how the keers rattle!” she said, “but they don’t jolt half as much as the front eend. Do you think there’s any danger of my—don’t pester them baskits, young man. I’ve got some apples an’ pie an’ fixens’ in ’em for Jane. Jane’s my darter, she lives in St Louis, an’ Paddock, her man, he keeps a store.” The porter here explained that it would he a necessity to remove the articles while making up the berth. “Well handle ’em mighty keerful. Gracious how the keers rattle! You don’t suppose there’s any danger of ’em—you—you don’t suppose there is, is there?” —• “Suppose what, marm?” “Why, that air—but pshaw! nuthin’.” And the old lady dived into a large hand-bag and fished out p bottle of camphor, and sprinkled her-immediate vicinity with the perfume. The last traveler was stowed away for the night; the last curtain wa3 drawn across the section, and the low rumble of the train through forest and clearing, farm and valley, was only broken by the ' occasional snort of a heavy sleeper. Miles miles of the dreary solitude of Missonri night scenery were left in the distance; the train went whizzing by small, unimportant stations, and now halted at some tank and took in solid and liquid refreshment for the bloodless horse. But why should it now slow up in the dreariest of all the' many dreary, unforbidding places along the road? What illlooking stranger was that who just entered the car and passed down the aisle between the slumberers with a scowling face stamped with a sinister brand? “Crack!” Surely a pistol shot! “I knew it! I’ve been looking for this sort of thing • for the last six months!” shouted a Kansas City drummer, diving for the aisle and getting there with both both feet. “I surrender!” “Crack!” - “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord —besides that I haven’t got a pistol,” echoed a muffled voice from the sepulcher of an upper berth. “Crack!” A rather shapeless female form, rqbed in white, and a rufled night-cap, kjranded into the aisle, and rushed at the Kansas City drummer with open mouth and a discrepancy of teeth. As fled she tripped, recovered herself, and plumped Bquarely into the drummer’s arms. “Oh, save me from the Jim boys, Landlord, save me!” she shrieked," save me for my darter’s sake!” “Crack 1” “Throw up your hands!” said the drummer, trying to squirm away. She complied rapidly, and he slipped put on to the rear platform. The train was just starting away from a ghostly tank looming up against the rosy-hued horizon of approaching day. The conductor entered the car from the other end. “Crack!” He dodged into the smoker’s apartment and peered out along the aisle where the old lady was “sashaying” and balancing before the curtained sections in a stately, singlehanded minuet. Capped and undressed heads were thrust without the curtains, and white, anxious faces looked up and down the aisle. “Any train robbers'at your end?” shouted the drummer above the din of the howling Parsons woman. "Not any down my way,” answered the conductor, stepping out in front of the old lady’s berth, c “Thunder and Mars! What’s this? A soda fountain?” “Crack!” “Why, for the land’s sake f ” broke in the Parson’s womap,” “es that ain’t my yeast, six bottles of it, all fer Jane,quid busted, busted, busted. I was afreered all along that the rattle of the keers would get the stuff a workin’ ” Drake's Traveler’s Magazine.

Church Religion.

"What is my opinion of church religgion ? There are two religions, one the religion of the church, and the other the religion of Christ; and, while I have all love and honor and respect for the simple beauty, noble unselfishness, and perfect charity of Christ’s religion, 1 am forced to confess that church religion does not exert upon me that influence one would suppose it should, deprived as it undoubtedly is, from Christ Himself. It has become human-* ized I think, until its Christliness is obscured, and in the effort to make its humanity artistic, it is dehumanized, and there is remaining a nondescript principle, alike unsatisfactory to God and man. There is a oonstant wail among church people that the growth of the church is slow, and they attribute it to the wickedness of the world. The world is wicked, but wickedness appreciates personal comfort i arid friendliness of meeting, and greeting and association, and that, l am sorry to say, prevails far more in wicked places than it does in the churches. The divine spirit is of course first to be considered, but the consideration of it demands the preliminary of physiqal consideration, and the church should be attractive in its people and an inducement shown distinctly, by the actions of those who profess Christ, that this religion does not stake them so aristocratic or so fasliionable or so high toned that they cannot extend the right hand of fellowship to a stranger within their gates, or the wanderer who] seeks

m i . ■ 1 • the fold. A little bit of thoughtfulness goes a long way, but it must be started before it can.go. Faith is not worth a. hill of beans if there be not works, And it is works that make the church temporal a success and transforms it. into a foundation upon which shall be built a superstructure of faith, whose towers and pinnacles lift their summits into the light of Christ's love, and whose hospitable doors are open to al,l of earth to come. Bevivalists, evangelists, and that class of religionists are successful and build up the churches, because they preach Christ’s religion, not church religion, f They belong to no church, and so assert, but they work for the church, for that is the only fold they have to put the rescued in, but they wouldn’t know their converts in a couple of years if they should meet them, and their converts wouldn't want to know them, for church fashion decries the recognition of the common herd, and represses any feeling, save cold formality. I don’t know how it will come out, and I wouldn’t want to say all these cold people would not go to Heaven, because if they went the other way, they would freeze the place over and knock the eternal fitness out of half of our hereafter.—Mrs. Brown, in Merchant Traveler. 1 . •. d

The Campo Santo, or Cemetery, of Genoa.

The Campo Santo is about a mile and a half from the city, and is built in the form of a vast square court, with tombs of the rich in raised galleries on the four sides, and the graves of the poor in the flat ground in the middle. All the galleries are built of white marble, with roofs and long lines of pillars; and the tombs are generally placed along the inner side of the galleries, and the greater part of them are surmounted by groups of life-size statuary. It is these statues, all of them tile work of famous modern Italian sculptors, which give to the place its queer and peculiar character. Many of the groups- consist not only of statues of the persons buried in the tombs, but life-like figures of the surviving relatives dressed in modern clothes. In one place you will see a father on his death-bed, his wife, dressed in the fashion of the present day, sitting by his side, while his son, a young man in double-breasted sack coat and striped trousers, and a daughter, with a polonaise and pleated skirt, stand at the foot of the couch. These figures are so well done that they almost seem to be alive; and as the members of the family come year after year to the cemetery, they must be content to see the clothes they were sculptured in getting more and more old-fashioned. Some of the designs are fine and artistic, although to our ideas very strange. In one part of the grounds we perceive a young lady richly* attired in a dress with a long train trimmed with a double row of ruffles and lace, and wearing a cape edged with scalloped lace, kneelnig at the foot of her father’s tomb, while a grand and beautiful figure of Christ rises out of some clouds just in front of her, and with one hand over the recumbent statue of her dead father, and one over her head, offers her consolation. In another place there is a group of two sisters, who are kneeling by the door of the tomb of a third sister; the door of the tomb is partly open, and the bmiedf sisterj in company with an angel who holds her by the hand, has just come out of it, and is rising toward the sky; as these figures are life size, the effects very striking. Close to this tomb is one which is planned upon an entirely different idea; a large old angel with a long beard and very grim and severe countenance is sitting solemnly upon a closed tomb. His expression gives one the idea that he has looked zround upon the young lady who has been liberated by the angel, and that he has said to himself: “The person in the tomb on which I am sitting need not expect to get out until the proper time .comes.” There is do doubt that these groups are considered very appropriate monuments to deceased friends and relatives by those who have placed them there, but some of them cannot fail to strike Americans as strange and odd.— Frank IL Stockton, in St. Nicholas.

Every House Burglar Proof.

Among the latest nses to which electricity is applied with remarkable success is in burglar alarms, through means of an invisible matting. Every opening in a large building can have an invisible mat, which upon the least touch will start a bell ringing that will not stop until the occupant awakes and turns it off. If desired the gas can be turned on - simultaneously with - the alarm, thtfa lullv exposing' the burglar. The matting is placed under the carpet, and, by. means of a wire attached, sends off the alarm. The very servants in the house do not know ( where the mats are situated, and cannot cut the connecting wires. Any sized mat can be had to fit any opening, or they can be placed near a safe or any place where valuables are kept. Placed under the table or desk, an almo3t,imperceptible pressure of the foot calls the servant or attendant, the waiter in the kitchen, the butler, and coachman, respectively, from the pantry and stable. No sneak-thief can enter a building without starting an alarm immediately. A: man coming home late at night steps on the mat; the, gas is lit instantly down, stairs and up-stairs. He goes to his sowl -room., presses a mat there and the gas down stairs goes out, leaving that in his room Kt. The surface of the carpet is not made uneven, nor.does it wear the carpet in the least. The system has met with wonderful success, and many large dwellings on Fifth avenue supplied with it are as difficult to enter undetected as blowing up a safe when the cashier is present. At the dinner table the lady of the house calls a servant by a pressure of the foot, without sounding a gong. It takes only a few hours to equip any building. The plants costs from $250 to SSOO.

About Preserved Sheep-Pelts.

An agricultural paper contains an article entitled “How to Preserve Sheep-pelts." The recipe may be the best known, but we shonldn’t think a sheep-pelt preserved would be very pleasant eating. Preserved quinces, peaches, and plums are good enough for us. —Norristown Herald. ••■ ' i

PARENTS AND CHILDREN.

Keeping Children Busy. i ' The busy is generally the happy child, and the happy child is generally the least troublesome of the species. Indeed, we hafre often thought that the maxim, “Be virtuous and you’il be happy,” might in the case of children, if not only in that of grown persons, be reversed and made to read, “Be happy and you’ll be virtuous.” Certain it is that the unoccupied child is unhappy and often indocile and mischievous.—New York Tribune. A Way to Keep Children Quiet. “I wish there was some tray to keep those'children quiet on a rainy day, or when it is too warm for them to be in the Bun playing,” said a weary mother the other day to her friend neighbor. “I always notice what little trouble you have with your children, although yon have three more than I have; and I thought perhaps you could tell me how you managed it.” “A very easy matter, my dear,” replied her friend. “Children must be amused or they will become cross and naughty; so would you and I. Suppose we were doomed to stay all day, or half a day, in one room, were not allowed to read, write, or sew, could only sit on certain chairs and handle certain articles, there was no one to talk to or nothing but a game of solitaire for us to play. Why, we’d be almost crazy. Any one, man, woman, or child, in good health, must have something to doduring their waking hours. Yet how few mothers try to furnish this something to the busy hands and active brains of the little ones. You notice children out in the street or garden. Are they ever quiet? No. It is true they find amusement in the most trivial thing. Now I have thought about all this, and have fixed up one room in the house, the play-room, exclusively for my children. The room is the large one on the top floor. It is all I had to spare, and as I could not afford a good carpet I painted the floor and left it bare. A poor carpet would be worn, out in six months. In the winter the room is heated by a little circular stove and over this is put a wire screen, so there is no danger of the children burning themselves. The walls are painted a delicate gray with a pink border, and I have a wainscoting that is one of the chief charms of the rpom. “What is it? Well, I collected all the pictures I could out of magazines, illustrated papers, etc., and pasted them on the wall from the floor almost as high as the mantel. Pictures of animals and birds, and those of child-life, are, of course, the greatest number. I put the colored prints down near the surface, so that the smaller children could enjoy them, and they are pasted on so nicely that tearing them is impossible. “Then,” continued this nice little mother, “I have five boxes in the room, all of different sizes. These boxes have covers that fasten down, and are padded on the top, with a flounce around the edge, so that when the box is closed they have the appearance of little ottomans. Each child keeps his playthings in the box, and it is his particular property, A nursery rug with all kinds of animals cut out of cloth, with the name embroidered underneath, is among the furnishings of the room. “My children amuse themselves for hours in that room, with only excursions now and then to the kitchen for something to play ‘tea party’ with, and I flatter myself that they learn considerable from the pictures, as well as neatness and order with their playthings.” —New York Morning Journal

Beating Brass.

This is a very interesting work for spare hours. A recent writer in Cassell’s Magazine gives the following directions : Take a small, square pieoe first, and hammer out a pattern on it for the sake of practice. It is done in this manner. The design is first drawn in ink on the brass; a block of lead must then be procured ou which to lay the brass during the hammering process, or, in lieu of that, a smooth board will answer the purpose. The pattern on the brass is now gone over with a “tracer,” which is something like a chisel, quite lightly at first so as only to indicate the otttlin,e; this is repeated several times until it is sufficiently well defined. It is a mistake to imagine that it might as well be marked out firmly enough the first time to bring the pattern into relief; if the attempt is made it will he found that the lines are bent into undesirable shapes. The tracer makes a number of short marks, and some practice isf necessary before they can be joined imperceptibly, so as to make a clear, perfect line around the flowers and leaves of the pattern. The outline being now finished, the background is hammered in, a punch having a broad end being used for the purpose. The longer the background is beaten the higher the design may stand out. Small punches are aftewards employed to give the ground a rough, uneven appearance. Great care must be observed not to make holes in the brass, and it should not he forgotten that the longer it is beaten the more brittle it becomes. A good plan is to work from the edge of the brass up toward the pattern. Thin sheets of brass are liable to curl up during tho hammering; to avoid this the edges should be turned over the block.

Token at His Word.

It was one of the genus tramps. He knocked at the door, of & house and when a kindly-looking woman opened it he said: “Madam, lam very hungry. I have had nothing for a week back." “Why, you poor soul,’’ said the good woman, “wait a moment and I’ll find something for you ” And she gave him an old porous plaster, and closed the door before he had finished thanking her.

Relics of the Revolution.

A New York visitor to Boston was interested and puzzled by the constantly recurring “H” on houses at street oorners. “What are those H’s for ?” the stranger asked. “They were dropped by the British when they left Boston,** was the solemn 'reply; **■