Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 June 1886 — Page 2

••THU OLD HOMKSTKAD." IT KrutNK riILD. }Mt M Rtweeii the awk'ani line* » hand we lor* li«i» petinM 'Appear* a maaaln - hid from other tjm. 80, in v<*ur aimnlc, h. mespun art, old boneat T '- Yankee f lend, “ J A power o' tearful, eweet **cg*atlon Ilea. W* eee It all—the pictur' that oar mem'rte* bold eod-ar— The bom eel ad In New Kmjland far away. An' the rlaiou (a so nat'ral-llke We almoet aeem to h« ar The voice* that were heahed but yeatwrdajr. Ah. wbo'tl ha* thought tbe mnaic at that dlatant childhood time Would alecp through all tbs changeful, bitter y«h Vo waken into melodiea like Chrla’maa belle e-chi in* An' to.claim the ready tribute of our teara t Why, th* robin* In the maple* an'theblackblrda round tbe pond. The cricket* an' th* locuita in the leave*. Tbe brook that chaaed the trout adown tbe billaid* jnat beyond, An' the (waller* in their neeta beneath the 4MUp99m.' They all coin* troopin' back with yon, dear Unci* Joah. to-dav. An' they aeom to alng with ail the Joyon* rest Of the day* when we were Yankee boy* an' Yankee girl* at play. With nary thought of “livin' way out Waati* God bleat ye. Denman Thompa'n, for tbe good y' do our heart* With thl* muaie an' thee* memoriea o' youth— God bleaa y# tor tbe faculty that top* all human art*. • The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth 1 —Chicago New*. IIKAiITY Hi NATt’RB. There it beauty in tbe apring-tlme, In tbe buddies of tbe flower*; There ie beauty In tbe bird eonga Bcbofng through the leafy bowers. Beauty in tbe laughing aireamlet, Rippling o'er lta pebbly bad. Beauty in the fleecy cloudlet* ’ In tbe apring-time aky o'erhead. Tber* la beauty In the raln-dropa Glistening on the dripping tree*, Beauty in the waving flower*, Fanned by every wayward breexe; In the rivet 5 * placid bonorn. Where are mirrowed cloud and aky. Beauty in the aong-bird aoaring Through tbe other blua on high. There t* beauty in the autumn. With it* brightly-tint-d leave*, Beauty in the few pale flow'ret* Over which tbe zephyr grieve*. Beauty in the a now of winter, White and spotleaa, pure and cold; Beauty when tbe wintry sunlight Casta o'er all a glow like gold. Yes, there's beauty in all nature, In all seasons a* they fly— Beauiy In the Held* about ua, Beauty in the azure aky; Beauty, whether Bay-day sunshine Flood* the earth with glory bright. Or the aparkling snow of winter Wraps the earth in mantle white.

MISS MARTELLO.

BY LILY CURRY.

A pole young woman with jet-black hair cot snort behind her ears and heavy circles about her eyes, as if from long and weary vigils; quietly dressed in brown, was walking Blowly as if lost in thought! Miss Martello was either alrendy ill, or, as the head doctor had predicted, “coming down” with the fever. That was why they had turned her out of the hospital, she said to herself, smiling bitterly the while. She was unable to perform her duties. But even as she said this, other thoughts came forcing themselves upon her, in the same connection, The voice of the doctor who had so brusquely given her marching orders, — had it been quite steady? Had not hits} hand closed upon her own with a painful pressure as. at the final moment, he flung out a breathless sort of—“ God bless you! no other nurse can take your place!” She remembered this parting in a languid way, as she walked down from the hospital toward the village center, and she realized her own languid state. It might be true that she was falling ill; bat she felt no fear. Only if it were so, it seemed a little hard that she should have been sent away; that she should not hav« been permitted to remain and rest upon a cot lire otbers, some of whom were yet there, some of whom had gone forth to the free air—living or dead. Ah, how many hands she had folded, and wished they were her own! The sun shone brightly on the fields growing green again in the mild spring atmosphere, brightly on the brown mountain sides, brightly' on the flowing river! The brightness of the landscape was dazding. One glance at the clear s£v was enough to blind her. She walked on with drooping head, and thought of the sodless hillside graves of yesterday andyesterday’s yesterday. She had grown so used to death in the past mouth that it held no farther terror. Her head was heavy, and her ideas seemed oonfused. She hardly knew what she meant to do. The doctor’s words recurred to her at intervals. “Get out of this region as quickly as Steam will carry vou. If you want to come back in a week or two, all right. But 11 hope the worst will be over then. Fresh eases are getting fewer every day.” She kept on her way down toward the village center. Th? greenness of the fields and Hie glory of the springtime’s earliest yellow bloom swam past her as she walked. The picket fences seemed to sway; there was even a suspicion of movement in the very plank sidewalk she trod. , She thought seriously about this, as the houses came closer together. Over the village hung a shadow that no sun might conquer. The shadow of the plague that swept life after life before it, and darkened alike the threshold of the humble and the prosperous. was oppressive. Scarcely a wagon moved along the spring-soft roads. Scarcely a hoof clicked against an occasional 6tone. The stores were nearly empty. The postoffice had a few seriousfaced loungers in the doorway. - Miss Martello did not go in. She passed on, with head still drooping. The words that fell upon her ear were dull and meaningless. , “One of the nnrses from the hospital,” said somebody, “looks pretty bad, too.” Then she knew—without turning toward them —that, some common impulse, the men had uncovered one and all. The railroad station was bat a short distance beyond. She kept on toward this. A solitary engine switching empty freight cars up and down the tracks, was the only thing suggestive of life. The station was empty; the ticket-office closed. She •canned the time-table, and saw that no train would leave within an hour. She went to the door and looked across the tracks at the railroad hotel, which was also the chief house of the town. A moment later she had crossed over and was entering the parlor. She thought she would rest awhile and think where to go or what todo. The landlady’s voice sounded suddenly at her ear, like the voice of distress when aid is at hand. ~ “Thank heaven you’re hen, Miss Martollo!” ' Miss Martello turned and looked up questioninsly. It was not surprising that the woman knew her. Everyone seemed to know her. “What iB it?" she asked, forgetting her lassitude for the moment. < It was quickly told. A stranger who had It was a young lady, well-dressed, quite pretty, end without baggage. There was Something strange about It. Would Mias

Mutello take s look si the csss, and see it it could be the fever? Miss Martello followed up-stairs with aching limbs. She was toon weary than' she had realized. She took a bnef survey of the sick stranger, then she said aside quietly: *s-- | ‘‘Perhaps if yon will leave me alone with her. I can find out the trouble.*’ When tbe door bad cloaed on the other, she sat down on the bedside and took a feverish band in her own. “Are yon in pain?" ahe asked, in a very kind voice. A pair of beayv eye lifts were raised, a pair of beautiful sea-blue eyes returned her gaze ‘ :'7 , -. ■/ A voice of anguish—even of despair—replied to her. “I am suffering torment. I think I must have died and gone to ” “Hush!” tbe other stopped her with a gentle reproach. “Can’t I help you in some way? You can trust me. I am—l have been a nurse for weeks. I am resting now—off duty!" She had begun to stroke the feverish hands. Hhe ceased and laid her palm upon the forehead of the girl before her, smoothing back the heavy maes of auburn hair. It was no common fnee this before her—no common beauty! The pure complexion, the perfect features, the beaQtiful sea-blue eyea! Hhe felt her heart go out strangely to this unknown sufferer. “There is no trouble,” she resumed after a moment's reflection, Vno trouble so great that it may not be alleviated or at least sympathized with by those who have also suffered.”

The other flnng her hands up wildly—her beautiful little dimpled, childish hands. “There is no alleviating—no sympathizing with snch trouble as mine. Only let me die—only let me die! I tried to die this morning. Ah, yon might as well know the truth! I drank poison and it did not kill; it onlv drugged me for a time!” “Ho—bnd—as—that?” Misa Martello spoke with long pauses between her words. “Poor child!" 6he said with infinite compassion. “I know what it is to wish to die. I know!” The other began to moan piteously. “If you know, you know. I am suffering so—and for no fault of mine. How could I know? How could be deceive me so?” “You loved some one?” Miss Mariello asked, softly. “And he was false. It is hard to love and to—lose. I loved my husband—and I lost him!” The beautiful face on the pillow was convulsed with pain for an instant. Its possessor sobbed tearlessly. “Hat my lover is not dead —not dead! He loved me —I am sure he loved me. But he deoeived me. He won my heart and yet he was not free. 0, God! To think of that! He asked me to be his wife —and yet he was already—married! But I did not know! How could I know? Off in another city was another woman—another who bore his name!” -Miss Martello stopped stroking the pretty, childish hand she held. Her heart seemed to pause, as if awaiting some fatal thrust. “Well?” she r asked in a voice that sounded to herself far-off and almost like another person’s. “That was all," the other moaned feebly. “That was all. A year—a long, long year I loved him; we were to be married. Then this news waa brought me. I thought I should go mad! For three days I bore it; I threw myself down on tlje floor in my room—and no one dared come near me. At last I got away—l came away off here to die among strangers. 0, why couldn’t I die?” Miss Martello made no reply. She sat looking away from the bed. Her eyes were fixed upon the tvlndow, where the afternoon sun shone yellow and tender. But her gaze pierced the glass and went far beyond —far beyond and far away beyond the mountain* walls.

Some time elapsed ere she spoke again. There was a great change upon her. She felt it herself and wondered if the sick girl felt it. It seemed as if a coldness had come over her and ehilled her to stone. She hesitated to speak. Her voice would sound dispassionate, perhaps unsympathetic. But at last she came to it. “The —the wife of—vour lover,” she said slowlv. “Did—did she love him, you think?” “0, I don’t know! How could she love him. He didn’t love her—he didn’t—” “How do you know” Miss Martello interrupted in curious breathlessness “how do you know he didn’t?® —— • “Why how could he?” The woman with the beautiful face and tangled locks of auburn started np, leaning on her elbow as she cried ont this wondering thought. Then she fell back weakly. “A man cannot love two at once. And he loved me!" The woman with the pale face and smooth black hair, and dark-circled eyes, bowed her head for a moment. “No,” she said in low acquiescence, “a man cannot love two at once. There is but ■one love. * •••*••• * And you did not know that be was married. Did be ever—did he speak at all of her—of this wife whom he did not love?” “I have not seen him 6ince,” the other moaned. “I have not seen him since. I shall never-never see him again." Miss Mortello’s face had grown still whiter. “Don’t sob so,” she said. “Is there—is there no hope for yon? Do you not think the—the wife will separate from him legally? You could marry him, then." “My religion forbids," the other checked her sobs, “my religion forbids. I am a Catholic. But there is no hope, even of that. She loves him, I suppose. Iheard she had found out some time before. I heard a good many things, but 1 don’t suppose they were true.” “You don’t know then how she looked or whai kind of a woman she was? She probably was not as beautiful as you, or he never would have stopped loving her.” “Stopped? He never loved her. He swore to me the day. I found if out. He never loved her!” Miss Martello spoke np sharply; her words ran together and were of piercing quality: “Don’t say that! In heaven’s name don’t say that!” - The sea-blue eyes regarded her strangely. “Why. what is it to you? Miss Martello arose and walked away from the bed. “Ah, indeed,” she Baid, having grown very quiet again. “What is it to me?” She stood a moment at the window looking ont. then returned to the bedside and resumed her seat. “What would you like me to do for you?" she asked. “Can I get you anything?" “No hing! Only let me die.” The beantifnl face bnried itself in the pillow.” “I don’t want to live any longer. They told me I could live it down—but I can’t. “Are you quite sure,” MiRS Martello spoke very calmly, “are you quite sure the wife would not desire a separation? Are your religious scruples stronger than your—your love for this man?” “0, it isn’t only myself. My family would never*hear to it—never. They would disown me.” “Then”—Miss Martello’s voice Held a faint scorn—“then the only thing is for the other woman to die, I suppose, and leave The place vacant for you. Your religion w <vnAllin't tel ’ Wuulu uut twjn v tv tunt . “O, I never was so wicked. I never conld wish for anyone to die—anyone but myself."

“WIIJ you tell me the name of your lover! Burely you see you can trust me." “His name u Marshall. Lawrence Marshall. 1 * . ... — t±r “His wife’s name was Agn® B ?” “Yes. How did you know? Did you evei live in—” “I knew them once— a long time ago. Hajras good to her. And she —she worship&PlTfiffrxHe bad a fickle nature. H< left her alone and went to another city. >Occasionally he came hoiue on a visit. H« wrote her constantly. Then * * * sh« found it all out. She heard about the girl he was in love with. She cast him out oi her heart, She knew she would neveT gel over it—she would carry the load to hex grave; but she gave him up. He does not know where she is now. If he told you h« did, he lied. * * • * is not an unkind woman. I think she would sympathize with you. I think she does. * * * Two wrongs do not make a right. If you wish, I will tell Agnes Marshall—when 1 see her—that you love him more than she does; that he loves you; that she will be doing a womanly part to set him free.” Silence-ensued, broken only by the sobs of the other. t “Tell her so, if you like. Tell her I (lid not know. Tell her I tned—to die!” “1 will tell her,” Miss Martello answered, dreamily. “I will tell her—all” Hhe did not stay much longer after that. She went down again and tulked with the landlady, arranging that everything be done for the comfort of the girl upstairs. “A runaway,” she explained. “A lover’s quarrel. Do the best you can- I think I shall have to go back to the hospital. She may have to stay a day or two. It is nothing serious or contagions. her illness. I will Send word to friends of hers.

She left the woman somewhat relieved; left the hotel and passed back to the railway station, where she entered the telegraph office and wrote a message; “Alice is ill at the Willow House, this town. Take core of her as yon would have heaven judge you. A. M. will never see or trouble you again. You can make the matter legal at your pleasure.” When she had paid for the telegram she passed to the door and went out into the light of the setting sun. She spent the night at the hotel, sitting throughout the evening with the sick stranger, who was hardly stranger now. Alice was the name. Alice Farrington, successor to Agnes Marshall in Lawrence Marshall's affections! Miss Mariello spoke cheerfully to the girl. “If you love so deeply, and are loved in return,” she said, “time will bring recompense. True love is mightier than all else —even death!” And Alice Farrington fell asleep, faintly comforted at least. Late the following afternoon, Miss Martello in the stillness of the hotel parlor heard a voice—the voice of a new-comer standing in the hotel office across the hall. As she heard it, she roße slowly and with trembling limbs, and dragged herself to the window, where she might stand looking out and so. avoid the possibility of her face being'seen. A moment later, the landlady hurried in and caught her arm. “He’s come; the young lady’s sweetheart.” Miss Martello seemed swallowing something. • , . . “Take him to her,” she said in a frozen way, which the woman was fortunately too excited to observe. “But first let me go and prepare her. Keep him in the office. I can slip upstairs ahead. I do not wish to see him.” When she had spoken a word of counsel to Alice Farrington, she did not linger, but slipped into her o'jvn room which was opposite. The transoms were open over either door. She heard his footsteps in the hall. They sounded to her, as, she fancied, footsteps Of the sheriff sound to the criminal who waits to be led out to death. She heard the door across the hall open and close; the glad sobbing of the other woman, the love-words that he was uttering. Then 6he fell on her knees and covered her ears so she should not hear.

“Death,” she said, “this is death! Yet, betteT that only one should suffer, than that three be tortured.” ~ « She remained kneeling so a long time. The afternoon passed and darkness came npon her. Some one came and knocked, but she had locked the door on closing it. She was safe. When it had been dark a long, long time, she heard the voice of the landlady. “Miss Martello. Ain’t you coming down for some supper? The young folks have had theirs and taken the train back to the city.—Thfer’re not gone half an boon” Miss Martello arose weakly and opened the door. Her brain was whirling, throbbing. Her face was burning; her hands icy. “They are gone!” she repeated vaguely. The woman answered volubly; “Yes, and the young lady left good-bye for you, and I was to tell you she said she guessed it would - come* all right by’n-by, and she hoped to have you visit her when she was married. She said She would write to you.” “Yes?” said Miss Martello. She put up her hands and straightened her bonnet, which had not been removed. ‘T think I wiit take a cttjy of tea, " she said, “and then go up to the hospital. They may need me.” There was a-strange scarlet in her thin face. Her dark eyes looked unearthly. She drank the tea in haste, and started out. She knew she must be ill. She could not walk steadily; her limbs were weak, her head swam. Nausea overpowered her. “Back to the hospital,” she said oyer and, over as she walked. “Perhaps I have done wrong. But there is only one to suffer. And I was strongest—the best able.” A spring rain nad begun to fall. The wind had risen and blew fiercely in her face. She staggered on in the darkness. Sometimes she heard voices; his voice, the voice of Alice Farrington, the words of the woman who kept the hotel. “. Left good-bye for you, and I was to tell you she guessed it would all come right by’n-by. and she hoped * * * to have you visit her when she was marrieds” T - She staggered on blindly through rain and wind, and fell exhausted at the hospitaldoorway. Some one brought a light and looked down upon her. It was the head doctor. “Great God!” he cried. And she had only strength jto jnurmur faintly: T “I have come back. You must take me in!” • • • * * * * Somebody says: I know the rest. She lay ill for weeks. The doctor nursed her back to health and they fell in love and married. Alas, no! Snch things happen in stories perhaps, but it ’ was different in this case. One night, toward the last, when the fever had burned out and her strength was ebbing thereafter, she asked for paper and pen and wrote these few words: ’ --±._ . “Be happy. I may have done wrong, ldid it for the best” - “Agnes Marsh Martello). ” They were intended for Alice Farrington. Then she fell asleep; and when morning came the sunlight shone upon her bed and found her still sleeping.—a sleep that, should not be broken. But Lawrence Marshall and Alice Farrington were happy.

Some Fads About Slippers.

About suppers then; only those who dine early require anything of the -sort* As I believe and trust that most of my readers are early diners,the few remarks I have to make al>ont the evening meal mav not be thrown away. Well,, then, it is a fact, which no one would attempt to gainsay, that the stomach must have an interval of rest between each meal. The period of rest ahould be granted to it gratuitously. It should not require to take it. But mark me: it wilt do so if weary. If we might personify the stomach, we could imagine it saying to the owner: “That mid-day meal was far too heavy —it was more than I could manage; I have worked away for four hours, and 1 have not yet completed digestion; there is still food here that needs to be reduced to ch vme, but my jucies are expended ; my nervous and muscular energies are exhausted; I can do no more. ” And what is the result ? Why, that a portion of indigestible food remains in ithe stomach, or passes through the pylorio opening, unreduced to chyme, fermenting and causing acidity, flatulence, eructations, and many indescribable feelings of discomfort. * But the mischief does not end heTe, for by-and-bv comes supper time. The

mistaken notion that it is the correct thing to eat at regular times, whether hungry or not, prevails, and more food finds its way into that unhappy stomach. Everybody knows what a ferment is. Well, in eating before the stomach is quite unloaded, you are mixing good food with that which is digesting. Can you wonder if a restless night follows —or a night of lethargy rather than sound sleep—that you toss and tumble, or either wake too soon, without the capability of going to sleep again, or doze longer than usual, and get up at last with a heavy head afid an irritable temper ?

But stay, though; perhaps you have an appetite for supper. Have you? What! despite the hearty dinner you discussed? Very well; if after that dinner you took a good spell of exercise in theopen air, or if you had some •lengthened pleasurable excitement, such as enjoying the conversation and company of friends, then this appetite of yours may be a wholesome one. But, on the other hand, if you enjoy yourself doing positively nothing after dinner; if you have never left the house, nor breathed a gallon of pure fresh air, then I say ten to one your appetite is a false one— a bullimic one— bora of a slight degree of nervous irritation, not to sav fever.

“Bullimic” is a technical word, I know, and lam going to explain it. “Bullimia,” then, is an unnatural craving for food. One may suffer from a slight attack of it now and then, or it may become chronic, and is then known to the profession as “bullimic dyspepsia. ” The patients suffer from hunger; and unless they eat immediately after the desire for food comes on, they get faint and low-spirited, and especially complain of a painful sense of sinking about the region of the heart and stomach. The desire for food returns almost immediately after a good meal (Dr. Guipon). I may say parenthetically that the most useful remedies for this kind of dyspepsia are minced raw beef, charcoal, cod-liver oil, and pepsine, with occasional mild aperients if the system cannot be kept free by the matutinal tub, open-air exercise, and fruit eaten in the morning. It but remains for me to say that I consider it a nervous affection, and that occasional attacks of it are brought on by errors in diet and dieting. The question is asked constantly of medical men: “What shall I take for

supper?” ’ The truth is that too much belief is placed in that usually nonsensical saying, “The system must be supported.” Nervous invalids or that class of persons whom I called in a former article “only middlings,” are constantly engaged “supporting their systems”; therefore, and in consequence, they give themselves no chance to get well: their whole lives are spent in one continued ferment of fever. Were they only to reduce the diet for even a week-or fortnight, and to eat and live by rule, they would be simply astonished at the change, and would ask our editor to thank the “Family Doctor” for his suggestions.— Family Doctor, in Cassell’s Magazine.

A Blot on American Bistory.

In 1846 came the American war and invasion, when the United'States, withr “one fell swoop,” as it were, took from Mexico considerably more than one-half of all its territory—923,B3s square miles out of a former total of 1,690,317. It is true that payment was tendered and accepted for about one thirty-fourth part (the Gladsden purchase) of what was taken, but appropriation and acceptance of payment were alike compulsory. For this war the judgment of all impartial history , will undoubtedly be that there was no justification or good reason on the part of the United States. It may be that what happened was an inevitable outcome of the law of the survival of the fittest, as exemplified among nations; and that the contrasts as seen to-day between the life, energy, and fierce development of much of that pari of Old Mexico that became American—California, Texas and Cqlorado—and the stagnant, povertystricken condition of the contiguous territory—Chihuahua, Sonora, Coahuila —that remained Mexican, are a proof of the truth of the proverb that “the tools rightfully belong to those who can use them." But, nevertheless, when one stands beside the monument erected at the foot of Chapultepec, to the memoryoof the young cadets of the Mexican Military School—mere boys—who, in opposing the assault of the American columns, were faithful unto death to their flag and their country, and notes the sternly simple inscription, “Who fell in the North American invasion” ; and when we also recall the comparative advantages of the contending forces—the Americans audacious, inspirited with continuous ' success, equipped with an abundance of the most improved material of war, commanded by most skilled officers, and backed with an overflowing treasury; the Mexicans poorly clothed, poorly fed, poorly armed, unpaid, and generally led by uneducated and often in-

competent commanders; And remember the real valor with whidh, under snch circumstances, the latter, who had received so little from their country, resisted the invasion and conquest of that country; and that in no battle of modern times have the losses been as great comparatively as were sustained by the Mexican forces—there is certainly not much of pleasure or satisfaction that sober-minded, justice-loving citizen of, the United States can or ought to find in this part of his country’s history. And, if we are the great, magnanimous; and Christian nation that we claim to be, no time ought to be lost in proving to history and the world onr right to the claim, by providing, by act of Congress, that all those cannon which lie scattered over the plains at West Point, bearing the inscriptions “Vera Cruz,” “Contreres,” “Chapultepee,” “Molino del Bey,” and “City of Mexico," and some of which have older insignia, showing that they were originally captured bv Mexican patriots from Spain in.their struggles for liberty; together with every captured banner or other trophy preserved in our national museums and collections, be gathered up and respectfully returned to the Mexican people.— Hon. David A. Wells, in Popular Science Monthly.

Cocaine in Optical Operations.

Although cocaine has been known for a good many years, and has from time to time formed the subject of inquiry among distinguished British and continental savants, it was reserved for Dr. Carl Koller, of Vienna, to demonstrate the practical use to which its marvelous property could be put. It occurred to this gentleman that the drug might be of use in the department of diseases of the eye. With this object in view, he experimented upon the eyes of animals, applying the drug in solutions of certain strength, and carefully noting the results. He found that in the course of a few moments, after the drug had been instilled several times into the conjunctival sac of an animal, the organ became insensible; that he was able to touch the cornea—the front part of the eye, which is endowed with extreme sensibility—with a pin without the least flinching on the part of the animal. Experimenting further, he ascertained that the insensibility was not confined to the superficial parts of the eye, but that it extended throughout the corneal substance, even to the structures within the ocular globe, and thus the fact so far of the utility of the drug for operative purposes came to be established. Then he turned his attention to cases in which the eye was the seat of disease, and the cornea acutely inflamed and painful, and he found that much relief from the symptoms was obtained by the use of the drug. Soon after this he commenced to employ cocaine in operations performed upon the eyes of patients. The results were highly satisfactory; and since then cataracts have been operated on, squinting eyes put straight, foreign bodies upon the corners removed painlessly and with ease, under the influence of the drug. In cataract, especially, eocaine is Us great value; this operation can be performed by its means without the slightest sensation of pain, and yet the patient is fully conscious, and is, of course, able to follow, during its performance, the precise instructions of the surgeon.— Chambers’ Journal.

Why Major Went to Church.

I once visited a pleasant countryhouse, the owner of which had a powerful and sagacious dog called Major. This dog was highly prized by his master and by the people of the neighborhood. He had saved many lives. Once when a swing-rope became entangled around the neck of a little girl, Major held her np until help came. One day the butcher brought in his bill for Major’s provisions. Major’s master thought it altogether too large, and shaking the paper angrily at the dog, he said: “See here, old fellow, you never ate all that meat, —did you?” >■ The dog looked hard at the bill, shook himself all over, regarded the butcher with contempt, and then went hack to his rug, where he stretched himself out with a low growl of dissatisfaction, —— —————- The next Sunday, just as service began at the village church, into my friend’s pew vaulted Major. The Major kept perfectly quiet until we all arose for.prayer; then he sprang upon the seat, stood on his hind-legs, piftced bis fore-paw upon the -front of the pew behind, and stared gravely and reproachfully into the face of the butcher, who looked very much confused, and turned first red and , then pale. The whole congregation smiled and tittered. Major’s master at once took the dog home. But the butcher was more considerate in his charges ■from that time. Evidently he felt mortified and conscience-stricken. —Lizzie Hatch, in St. Nicholas

Men All Alike.

“It is very seldom,” said the waitress, “that you meet one man different from the rest. They are all toned to the same key, and that key is conceit. There isn’t a man who comes in here regularly but believes that all us girls are ‘dead gone’ on him. Doesn’t matter how old, how poor, or how homely the man is, he still thinks that wherever he goes lie leavas behind him bro-ken-hearted women. I ’spose you think men come here just to eat. Well, they do, but anybody to look at them would think that their chief purpose was to whjsper chitchat to the waitress and look killingly every time she passes. And they are all alike, married or single, if they only knew how tired it makes ns, perhaps they would quit. I tell you it is refreshing when, once in a long time, a man comes in who really appears to have come in for the purpose of having a meal—who piles info the grub and seems not to mind us any more than if we were men. When that sort of a man strikes the place and leaves it without any of the little flirty tricks of the general run we girls just do admire him, and wouldn’t mind if he was a little more sociable.”— Toronto Mail. T ________ ", The hipft o ”* parfg.»fa’nn of hnman reason is to know that there is .an infinity of truth beyond its reach.

THE CONFEDERATE GENERALS.

The Occupation* at Which Thoae Who Survira Are Eagafad. "~~* m Gen. Marcus J. Wright, an ex-Con-federate officer, who has charge of the. publication of the rebellion records under the auspices of the war department, says the Cincinnati Enquirer, gives the following as the whereabouts and occupations of the more prominent Generals of the Confederate army: Of the six full Generals appointed by the Confederate Congress only two survive —Joseph E. Johnson, now United States Commissioner of Railroads, and G. T. Beauregard, Adjutant General of • Louisiana, and Manager of the Louisiana Lottery Drawings. Of the twenty Lieutenant Generals appointed to the provisiohal army, several are living. E. Kirby Smith is Professor of Mathamatics in the University of the South, Tennessee, which is an Episcopal institution; James Longstreet is keeping a hotel down in Georgia, after serving a term there as United States Marshal under President Hayes; D. H. Hill, of North Carolina, was, till recently, President of the Agricultural School of the State of Arkansas, and now earns a living chiefly by magazinewriting. Richard Taylor, son of President Taylor, is engaged in building a canal near New Orleans. Stephen B. Lee is a farmer, and President of the State Agricultural College of Mississippi. Jubal A. Early practices law law at Lynchburg. Of the Major Generals, A. P. Stewart is now President of the University of Mississippi at Oxford, where Secretary Lamar was a Professor at the time of his election to the United States Senate. Wade Hamptom is in the Senate. Joseph Wheeler is in Congress; he is very wealthy and one of largest planters in Alabama. John B. Gordon is a millionaire railroad man. Gen. Loring, of Florida, was engineering in Egypt until a few years -ago, when he came to New York to work at the same profession. B. F. Creatham, Postmaster at Nashville, Tenn. Sam Jones, of Virginia, is in the Judge Advocate General’s office. Lafayette Mc- ’ Laws is Postmaster at Savannah, Ga. S. B. Buckner lives in Louisville, Ky., where he owns a great deal of real estate, the revenue of which supports him. L. B. French earns a scanty subsistence by engineering in Georgia. C; L. Stephenson is in Fredericksburg, Va. John H. Forney, brother to Congressman Forney, is in an Insane Asylum at Selma, Ala. Abney H. Maury is Washington agent for a New York life insurance company. John G. Walker is also in the insurance business here. Isaac R, Trimble lives in retirement in Baltimore on a fortune derived from the Trimble whisky. Gen. Heath is employed by the government to do engineering on some southern rivers. Cadmus Wilcox was formerly employed about the Senate chamber, but is now in retirement writing a history ofthe Mexican war. Fitzhugh Lee is Governor of Virginia. Extra Billy Smith practices law at Warren ton, Va. Charles W. Field, once doorkeeper of the House, is Superintendent of the Hot Springs Reservation. William B. Bate is Governor of Tennessee. W. H. F. Lee is a Fairfax County farmer. C. J. Polignac, who came over from France, to espouse the Confederate cause, is back in Paris, busied with immense railroad operations. J. F. Fagan was Marshal of Arkansas under Grant. He is now at Little Rock. William Mahone is in the Senate, as is E. C. Walthall of Mississippi. John S. Marmaduke is Governor of Missouri. Pierce M. B. Young has gone to Russia as United States Counsul General at St. Petersburg. M. C. Butler is a Senator of the United States. Thomas L. Russell, after making a fortune as attorney for the Northern Pacific Railroad, has settled down at his old home, Charlottesville, Va. G. W. Curtis Lee is President of Washington and Lee University, at Lexington, Va.

No Light in the Window.

As the train sped along in the night, with drowsy passengers outstretched upon the seats, the conductor was observed frequently peering out of the frosty window into the darkness. The night was black, and nothing could be seen hut a sheen of snow over the shadowv landscape, and yet the conductor shaded his eyes with his two hands and held his face—a wearv-looking face it was too—close to the window pane. “.Looking to see if your girl is awake yet?” inquired the inquisitive passenger with a coarse laugh. - The conductor looked around and shuddered, as with a husky voice he replied simply: “Yes.” And then the inquisitive passenger became garrulous and familiar. He sat down beside®the conductor and poked him in the ribs as he lightly said: “Ah, I see. Going to get married and quit the road. Going to marry a farmer’s daughter. Worth much ?” “She’s worth a million to me.” Further remarks in a similar vein did the passenger make, but the conductor deigned no more replies. Suddenly the whistle of the locomotive gave a long, low moan, the conductor stuck his eves still closer to the window, seemed to fasten his gaze upon some object in the darkness, and then fell bai&in hia Beat witfa a cry of despair upon his lips. ; ’ ■ The passengers gathered round to inquire the nature of the trouble, when the brakeman assisted his chief to rise and led him into the baggage car. The conductor’s face was as white as the snow hanks which fringed the iron roadway, and in his eye was a look of tearless grief. “Poor Sam,” said the brakeman upon his return, “it's a bad night for him. Four weeks his little girl has been iIL Night after night he was at her bed, bat then she got better and he came back to his train. He arranged with his wife that if all was well with the little one she’d display a lighted lamp right in the window of the ’sick room! The boys all knew it, and every night we all looked for the light almost as eagerly as Sam himself. Ho lives by the side of the track back here A few in the window for Sam."— Chicago Herald.