Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 January 1875 — Page 3

RENSSELAER UNION. — «. JAMES A HEALEY, Proprietor*. RENSSELAER, - INDIANA.

AN IDYL OF THE OLD HOOF-TREE. *Y MBS. MARIA B. HOLYOKE. Lon" time a dweller in the town, /''Far from my childhood's peaceful home, At length I dropped my burdens down A golden mouth to rest and roam. The city’s din is far away, The country's green is at my feet; The sun of June makes fair the day. The meadow’s breath is fresh and sweet. And at my will I saunter still, Adown tho orchard, o’er the hill. How looms the Past while here I rove. And scan my early haunts again! A child I .wander in the grove, And echo back the thrush's strain, Plnc.k in the wild grass posies gav— Wind-flowers ana bluebells in the woods — Snuffing the fragrant new-mown hay— Sighting the fawn in solitudes— Noting the tree With nestlings three, Or where the ripe June apples be! I pause to drink at mossy spring, . And track the corn-field's vivid green, ' I hear again the wild lark sing From out the wheat-field’s golden sheen, Then seek the leaf-hid mansion, where My mother smiles at open door, And strain to see the silver hair— My father’s—who will come no more. The tears so flow *—— — I scarcely know If it be now or long ago ! Oh! dear the old farmhouse to me! The homely ways, the ample cheer, The refuge at my mother’s knee From childhood’s every grief and fear. And dear the memory of those days Bathed in love’s amber atmosphere, When all our voices rose in praise, When elre and child were bowed in prayer. But where are they. The fond, the gay, Who filled the great white house with May ? Gone like the birds from last year’s nest! Gone as the leaves in autumn fly! Some to the cities of the West; SoMe toil beneath an Indian sky; Some, other prairies sow and reap; One sank beneath the moaning s«a; Some in the churchyard lie asleep, * And, quivering in the old roof-tree. One homesick waits The swing of gates To waft her to heaven’s bright estates! — Advance.

PHŒBE, OF SANDY GULCH.

They called the place Sandy Gulch; it was hard to understand why, for it was full of rocks, apparently. There was not sand enough risible to scour a pan—but, then, pans in Sandy. Gulch were not scoured. There was a deeply-bronzed and heavily-bearded set of men, heavy drinkers, all; and there were no women, at least until Phccbe arrived. Slim Jim was the autocrat of the place; he kept the New Orleans Saloon. Liquors were dispensed in the front room and faro in the rear. Phoebe lived “ a smart piece” above it, in a rough place, half canvas and half logs. What old Langsdale had brought her there for no one could imagine; she had been the only woman on the ship when they made their weary six months’ voyage from New York, and now she was the only woman in Sandy Gulch. The miners took off their hats when they passed old Langsdale’s cabin. Phoebe was twenty —most girls are pretty at twenty if they are ever going to be pretty; Phoebe had hazel eyes and rounded, rose-pink cheeks, and the prettiest pouting mouth in the world. The Sandy Gulchers thought her a goddess, and adored her accordingly. Old Langsdale took the best of care of his daughter. When he moved his claim he moved his cabin, too; and always kept near enough for Phoebe to hear the sound of his pick. When the diggings gave out in one place the cabin was “ toted” to where they had not given out. He never lacked help in moving his cabin —there were always plenty of Sandy Gulchers anxious to lend a hand; and even quarreled about it, and Langsdale obliged them to take turns. You see, they called it “ helping Phoebe.” There were not many loafers in camp; the people had come there to make a fortune and could not afford to loaf; but there were a few, a couple of Mexicans —“ Greasers,” the miners called them—and two or three of the stamp of Slim Jim. They were always busy enough at night; in the daytime they "hung around the New Orleans Saloon, and they would have liked to have visited Phoebe, but old Langsdale would not have it. He borrowed a pot of black paint and a brush, and painted over his door: "“notice! no loafers wanted.” He thought that would do, but one day he came home and found Apodoca there. Phoebe was sitting on an empty butterkeg, the rose-pink in her round cheeks deepened a little, and the pouting mouth was as smiling as you please. Old Langsdale was mad; he called Apodoca out, and pointed to the notice over the door. Apodoca planted his feet firmly on the ground, placed his arms akimbo, and gazed intently at the lettering for some time; then, turning to Langsdale, he said, in his politest accents : “No sabbee.” “You ito read?” interrogated Langsdale. “Me no sabbee read Inglis,” replied Apodoca, taking his sombrero from the bush by the door which caught the hats of most of Phmbe’s .visitors; once in a while a hat was taken inside, if it chanced to be new, and kicked S under the table for safe-keeping. Apodoca raised his sombrero as if to put it on, but just then he caught sight of Phoebe standing in the doorway, with her cheeks pinker than ever, and an extremely amfis#d look in her hazel eyes; so he held the hat behind him and stood bareheaded. “Well,” said Langsdale, ‘ T’ll read it for you: ‘ Notice!’ "—he said this in thundering tones, which increased in volume as he went on—“‘No loafers wanted ’ That means git! You sabbee that?” “Si, Senor,” replied Apodoca, with a sardonic smile, as, after a most profound bow to Phoebe, he placed his sombrero on his head and walkqd serenely away. “ I’ll horsewhip that fobl es I ketch him yere agin,” said Langsdale, frowning at Phoebe. “Why, papa, don’t blame me,” said she, tossing her head; “ I cpuldn’t tell him to clear out.” “ You needn’t have been so dreadful sweety and smiling, though!" he replied. “ I just gave him a pleasant word,” pouted Phoebe; “ I cafi’t be cross to people, SDd Jose was very polite, Pm sure.” Langsdale muttered something about “ breaking his head,” and went into the cabin for his dinner. Phoebe went in after him. When he had gone into the rest room. wbich was his room, par «#- celUnce she softly closed the door behind him. ..The front room was her own; it contained her bed, her wardrobe, and her 'Jr '

trinkets. The latter were all presents, and all of one sort. They stood in a row on a rough board shelf—“ specimens” which would have made Eastern ladies’ eyes shine. * When a Sandy Gulcher found a nugget which was remarkable for purity or beauty he set it aside for the “ Posy”— they all liked to call the blooming maid their “ Posy.” The consequence was that Miss Phoebe had several thousand dollars on her rough shelf, and went barefooted and bareheaded, and wore a , calico gown. She had no fear of anyone, robbing her, though there were scamps in the camp who would have cut a man’s throat for a tenth of the wealth which Phoebe’s nuggets represented; but woe unto the man in Sandy Gulch who would have robbed the Posy! When she had shut the door after her father Phoebe took from her pocket a new specimen—a particularly fine one, and very valuable; it was a present just received from Jose Apodoca. It had probably been won in the rear room at Slim Jim’s, but that did not trouble Phoebe. When she first came to California she had been shocked at a hundred things which she now looked upon with indifference; faro, with its kindred games, was one; getting uproariously drunk was another; shooting affrays—unless they ended fatally for some of her friends—another. She admired her nugget—not for its value, but because it was pretty ; perhaps because in her heart there was a soft place for the handsome Mexican. She despised him for his laziness, and yet—she put it on the shelf with a sigh. “I’ll tell papa,” she thought to herself, “ when he feels kinder toward Jose. He might have known he had no business to come up in the daytime.” Yet, in spite of old Langsdale’s emphatic translation of the “ Inglis” over his door, Apodoca came again, and in the daytime, too. Phoebe “ couldn’t be cross to people,” and smiled and chatted, rose-pink deepened in her cheeks, light brightened in her eyes, until Jose was more enthralled and bewildered than ever. But, for all her pleasantness, Phoebe was a dutiful daughter, and not only impressed her adorer with the necessity of departing before her father came home for liis dinner, but likewise besought him not to come again unless to her evening reception. The Posy and her father seldom entertained less than twenty in an evening. But Jose intimated, in mellifluous if adulterated Spanish Spanish flowed like oil from the Posy’s ready tongue—that he could not speak more than two words to her in and, besides (with a smile and a jerk of his thumb toward Slim Jim’s), his business engagements prevented his coming in the evening; and, still besides that, he must there meet a certain hated John, who was supposed to be the choice of her heart, as he certainly was of her father’s. Phoebe pouted and made a face at the mention of John; he would have been a grand catch for pretty Phoebe Langsdale in.the little down-East town where she had been brought up—but the goddess of Sandy Gulch could afford to be scornful. Jose, however, was inclined to question the sincerity of her scorn; she, in turn, protested vigorously, and in the midst of the discussion old Langsdale walked in unsuspiciously Casting a look full of anger and disgust at his daughter, the old man, who had the strength of a giant, seized Apodoca by the shoulder, and half lifted, half kicked him out, yelling, “Git! git!” at the top of his voice. The Mexican, however, was not to be kicked out of anywhere by anybody with impunity, and, drawing the short, “sharp knife without which a Sandy Gulcher would have been unrecognizable, he made a furious bound toward the old man, with liis knife upraised and a murderous rage distorting his handsome face. But Phoebe was there before him; seizing his arm with her little brown hand, the rose-pink all faded out of her cheeks, and her eyes wide open with terror, she cried, “ Don’t strike —don’t strike!” catching her breath in a terrified sob, which drove the devil from Apodoca’s heart at once. Flinging his knife into the chaparral lie caught the terrified goddess in his arms, pressed a burning kiss —liis first and last—on the round, /warm cheek, and fled, and Sandy Gulch knew him no more. He knew that Phoebe and her guardians would never forgive his drawing a knife on old. Langsdale, and he unarmed! A man who would resent anything from the Posy’s father was not to be tolerated in Sandy Gulch. Time went by, and the goddess still reigned without a rival in her kingdom, and poor John still sued at her feet, though getting hopeless. His university education, his talents, his proud family/ his manly beauty, all availed him nothing in his desire to gather to himself the blooming Posy; and then, he did have wretchecTßad luck. He often said, with a gloomy smile, that when liis pick went in gold went out at the other end, a remark that Slim Jim repeated, with comments, in relation to his luck at faro; and John received some friendly advice from that worthy to let cards alone. z One night John sat. in the rear room tipped back in his chair with his heels on the window-sill watching a game in progress between Slippery Jack and a man known as “ The Doctor." The Posy held no reception that evening; she had started at daybreak, accompanied by her father, for a visit over to Van Dozen's. Van Duzen was a portly Dutchman with four portly Dutch daughters. They and Phoebe hardly understood” each otliei, but the goddess felt very lonely in her kingdom sometimes and longed for female society, and the four Dutch Eirls were the only women between andy Gulch and Bootjack Bar, a distance of forty-odd miles; so once in a while she felt compelled to mount her little steed, liobin, and pay a visit to the Dutch ladies. Aside from the unwonted absence of the Posy, John felt melancholy; he was dead bioke, and had come to the conclusion that his claim was not worth as much as his pick; and then, although old Langsdale had invited him to ride over 1 6 Van Duzen’s and help escort the Posy home that night, yet he could not but let the remembrance of Phoebe’s cool manner rankle is his mind more than the prospect of his felicity soothed it. , Buenos noches, Senor John,” said a musical voice. John looked up a trifle surprised. “ Hullo, Apodoca, that you?” Apodoca responded that it was undoubtedly himself, and invited John to a game of cards. John lookfed at his watch; in ten or fifteen minutes he must be starting for Van DuzGn’s. It had been the Posy’s sovereign desire to leave there about ten o’clock and come home by moonlight; moreover, he knew that the Mexican hated him, and that his reputation as an honest man had cot been im-

proved since he left Sandy Gulch. It was rumored that he was wanted in San Simeon and Los Angeles for a little horse-stealing, or worse. So John tipped back a little more in his chair and said he couldn’t; had promised Langsdale and the Posy to ride home with them from Van Duzen’s that night. Apodoca smiled serenely, and said: One little game; it takes but a few minutes.” “ Come, John,” said the doctor, “ I’m in good luck to-night; you and I against Slippery Jack and Jose.” “ I’m dead broke,” said John. “ I lend; I have plenty gold dust, see!” and Jose drew out a bag which looked comfortably plump. He Insisted on lending John an ounce and the game began. On the first deal Apodoca and Jack were winners, and the former volunteered to treat. John began to get interested in the game, then excited, then absorbed. He called for more drinks, he borrowed more gold dust, he forgot the Posy and lftr moonlight ride. His brain seemed to be on fire; now he won, now he lost. His losings were the greater, for he must always borrow more dust from the “ Greaser’s” bank so comfortf ull. Slippery Jack and the doctor slipped out of the game somehow and he and Apodoca played alone. Slim Jim looked on contemptuously, commiseratingly. “Confounded fool!” he said to Bald Pete—John’s former partner—“he never had no luck; oughter know it.” Meanwhile the Posy rode home over the mountain trail in the silver' moonlight under the swaying pines with their mysterious whispers in a very bad temper. Her father rode before her; where was “that John,” who ought to have been only too happy to have the honor of riding behind her? She had intended to be so pleasant to him too! When they passed the New Orleans Saloon it was brilliantly lighted; it was always brilliantly lighted all night. “ Ask what time it is, papa,” said Phoebe. Langsdale asked Bald Pete, who stood by the door. “Two o’clock,” he answered. “ What are they so still in there for?" asked Phoebe, accustomed to hear the most uproarious noises in the saloon. “Apodoca and John are playing,” replied Bald Pete. “Come here!” said the Posy, imperiously. Bald Pete came' obediently, as became a faithful subject. “ What are the stakes? John’s got nothing to play with. When did Jose get hack? Who is winning?” Bald Pete answered all the questions,, but the one about the stakes he evaded. But she made him tell how John had boriowed gold dust until Jose would lend no more; that he had risked his claim and lost it; his watch, his pick, the very clothes upon his back. “ He’s clean gone crazy,” said Bald Pete, “ clean outern his wits.” “ What’s he playing for now?” said the Posy. Bald Pete hesitated and tried again to evade the question; in vain. “If you don’t tell me," said she, “I’ll go right in and ask ’em.” “Wall,” said Pete, peering up in the darkness to get a look at the Posy’s round, pretty face, “he’s staked his chances ter git you agin the dust lie’s borrowed of Jose.” “ And who’s winning?” “ I’m bound to say as Jose’s winnin’,” said Pete, sorrowfully. “John never had no luck at keards,” Phcebe whipped up Robin a little and followed her father up to the cabin in silence. Once inside her room she took from the shelf the nugget which had been a present from Jose, and, stepping outside- the door, slie threw it with all her strength into the thick underbrush, whispering: “There, blood-thirsty villain!” Then she went back, took the rest of her nuggets—gathering up the corners of her apron, that none might toll out —slipped out of the door, and ran at full speed down to the saloon, the silver moonlight shining upon her as she went. Bald Pete stood at the door. ~“ My eye!” he cried, when he saw the Posy. “Are they playing yet?”she whispered. He nodded assent. She took his hand and clung to it like a child, drawing him into the room after her. Jose looked up when she came in, and started; John saw her too, atid let the cards drop from his hand. “ Never mind ’em, John,” she said in so low a voice that he hardly heard her, “I’m going to pay Jose for your debt;” and she emptied the nuggets upon the table, between the pistols which lay there, one upon each side, ready to the hand of each player. She put her arms around John’s arm, clinging to it, as if she loved it, and tried to lead him away. Apodoca flung his cards upon the floor, and, quick as a flash, Phoebe heard the crack of a pistol—once, twice! John fell back against the wall with a groan, the room was full of smoke and the smell of burnt powder; then there was a heavy thud and Apodoca fell, between the wall and the table, dead, without a groan or a word; the pistol, clenched fast in nis stiffened hand, went to the grave with him. And two days after, with all the inconsistency of a woman, the Posy searched the cliapparal, far and near, to find the nugget which she hid scornfully thrown away, and which, for all her searching, she never found. “John was all very well—she did love him, and would marry him; but his wound had been nothing; Apodoca’s aim, so fatftlly sure the second, had missed the first time, and John had escaped with a mere flesh-wound. But Jose—“poor fellow!”—his love had cost him his life, and even spoiled goddesses have tender women’s hearts.— Overland Monthly.

Cure for Laziness.

A colored employe at Bellevue Hospital was so often missed from duty that at length a diligent search was made and Bill was found snugly stowed away in a coffin in the basement, sleeping soundly. The surgeon who made the discovery, instead of getting Bill discharged, undertook, with the aid of some other youths of the scalpel, to correct his shirking habit. The next time Bill was called for and was not forthcoming a descent was made on the coffin department, and the sound of screwing down a lid was heard, accompanied presently by circumscribed floundering and frightened cries from the awakened darkey. “ Poor fellow!” came to his .ears in a well-known voice, “ his death was sudden, though he’s disliked work for some time; he was probably ailing when we thought him lazy. Dr. Joe, be so good as to pass me that pall.” “Yes, make everything Bnug,” said the person addressed, “ for, for my part, I suspect some awful contagion has car ried Bill off. Otherwise we could use him on the dissecting table.” “ As it is,” joined in a third, " he must be hurried into the ground forthwith.

Doctor, please order the hearse for poor Bill.” <« “ I’ve done so, and it is waiting. Trot him out.” ) The desperate’subject, who seemed to have done his best, concluded that he was without the power of motion and that his cries and struggles were purely imaginary. “Oh, gorra massy!” came in stifled tones from his narrow sleeping apartment, “l’s on’y nappin’ —I neber hab done died, but I shall dis ver way. Fur (le lub o’ keben, le’ me out o’yere." It was altogether in vain; the funeral proceeded/the coffin being lifted ahd conveyed along the passages Even on the foot-board being cracked by a lusty kick the occupant of the coffin had the poor satisfaction of hearing it remarked that it was of poor - stock, but good enough for a shiftless fellow like Bill. One more kick, however, sent the splinters flying and brought the darkey feet into view. Whereupon the astonished surgeons hastened tq raise the lid and release the prisoner. From that day Bill was not given to napping, and the doctors declared they had never performed a more remarkable cure . —Boston Transcript.

PHUNNYGRAMS.

—The other day when a house at Scranton fell into a coal pit the old widow explained that something was always sure to happen to spoil her emptings if they looked flattering. —When a boy is sitting on the sunny side of a horse-barn waiting for hisTather to come home and “ lick” him you might talk astronomy to him for four straight hours and not excite his interest. —They have a new test for intoxication in Canada. When a man can pronounce “reciprocity” without tripping the police let him go. In Maine the test is “Erastus Richa-dson,” and “rassis risson” is deemed conclusive. —Like a bell that’s rung for fire; liHe a careless auction-crier; like ofttimes a graceless liar, mischief-making tattlers go; stopping you with quaking fear, whispering as you lend an ear— 1 Mercy on us, did you hear? Betsey Bean has got a beau!’ —“Ah, Sam, so you’ve been in trouble, hab you?” “Yes, Jim, yes.” “Well, .well, cheer up, man; adversity tries us, and shows up our best qualities.” “Ah, but adversity didn’t try me; it was an old wagabond of a Judge, and he showed up my worst qualities.” —Fond Mother —“ John, do look at that child; it has your watch in its mouth and will swallow it!” John (who is a bachelor brother-in-law, and very fond of babies) —“ Oh, don’t be the least alarmed. I’ve got hold of the chain. It can’t go far.” Tableau. —“ Make you a coat, sir?” said a suspicious tailor to a suspected customer. “Oh, yes, sir, with the greatest pleasure.” “There, just stand in that position, please, and look right upon that notice while I take your measure.” Customer reads the notice: “ Terms cash.” —An old lady in town has become disgusted with almanacs. She says if all the people in this country were to stop buying almanacs “ maybe the printers who make ’em would put in some total eclipses of the sun and moon and some transits of Venuses that would be visible here.” — Norristown Herald. —Monday night a policeman passing along Second street discovered a ghostly object standing by a gate, and crossing over lie found that it was a man in his night-clothes. “I didn’t know but that you were walking in your sleep,” said the officer. “No; I was standing out here to wait till the old woman got over being mad and dropped to sleep!” quietly replied the citizen.— Detroit paper. —A man about two-tliirds drunk was riding on a Fort street car yesterday, and lie hadn’t yet unbosomed himself when a nice-looking young man, highly scented, entered the car and took a seat opposite the inebriate. The perfume floated over, and the man snuffed and turned his head this way and that. He finally got his eyes on the young man, and pointing his finger at him inquired : “ Y-young man—d-do your f-feet smell —smell that way all the t-time ?” There was dead silence in the car.— Detroit Press. —Two ladies met on Woodward avenue yesterday, and one inquired of the other: “ Why, you look very happy this morning. Wliat’s happened?” “ Oh, I’ve just been up having my fortune told,” was the reply, “ and the woman says I’m to marry twice more, have diamonds and a camel’s hair shawl, and that I can go to the opera six nights in a week if I want to.” “ Dear me, I don’t wonder that you are happy. But you won’t say anything to your husband?” “ Oh, of course not. Poor man. He’s good to me. and it might hurt his feelings to know that I am going to marry twice more. I think I’ll tell him I’m likely to die first.”— Detroit Free Press.

Strange Preservation of a Corpse.

In the town of Eliza Ville, Fleming County, Ky„ is an old private burial place, where the dead of several private families are deposited. About twenty years ago Daniel Ficklin—whose name bears with it pleasant memories of the past —was buried at this place, and just after him his daughter Lizzie, aged about four years, died and was buried by his side. Several years ago Mrs. Lucy p. Rogers, daughter of Mr. Ficklin and wife of Elder John L. Rogers, died and her dust was deposited with that of her husband. Her infant child died about three weeks alter its mother, and was buried in a metallic coffin in the same grave. Last Saturday, at the instance of Charles L. Ficklin, of Memphis, son of Daniel Ficklin, the remains of the above-mentioned persons were disinterred, with a view to their removal to the cemetery at Flemingsburg. Each corpse has resolved into t ! native dust with the exception of the infant buried seventeen years ago. That was in a state of perfect preservation. Even the color of the eyes could be distinguished; the hair black and long; the face did not have the pallor of death, but had a bright fleshy color. A small gold pin fastened its burial shroud around the neck. The clothes in which the jnfant was dressed resembled white wax-work and the w’hole appearance of the corpse was so natural as scarcely to bear the features of death, while of its mother nothing remains but the decaying bones. Mb. A- Bronson Aixx>tt was opce expounding his theory of the sin of eating flesh, antjf said: "A man who eats pork becomes a little swinish, does he not? and if he eats mutton he is inclined to be sheepish.” “ Perhaps so*” replied Dr. James Walker, “ hujt I have noticed that men who live on vegetables are apt to be—rather—small—potatoes.”

Our Young; Folks.— THE BROWN THRUSH. There is a merry brown thrush silting up in the tree. - He’s singing to me! He's singing to me!” And w hat does he say, little girl, little bojr? “ Oh, the world’s running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see?' Hush! Look! In my tree I’m as happy as happy can be!’" ' And the brown thrush keeps singing: “ nest do you see,- * And five 'esKS, hid by me in the juniper-tree? Don't meddle! don’t touch! little girl. little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I’m glad! now I'm free! And I always shall be If you never bring sorrow to me/' So the merry brown thrnsh sings away f n the tree. To you and to me, to you and to me; Anil he sings all the day, little girl, little boy: “ Oh, the world is running over with joy! But long it won’t be, Don’t you know? Don’t you see? Unless we are as good as good can be!’’ —Childhood, Songs , by Lucy Lor com.

HOW BOB WATCHED THE ORCHARD.

Bob, Jamie and Lina were visiting at Uncle Blair’s. It was always pleasant there; in maple-sugar time, at the strawberry season, or in the winter even; tut the children thought no time like this autumn, when the forests looked like giant bouquets of scarlet, yellow and brown, and the orchards blushed with ruddy fruit. They made a daily expedition with Peleg, the hired man, for windfalls in the “ far orchard,” lying a mile and a half up the hillside, and looked forward with delight to the time when the regular applegathering should begin. The “ near orchard” was quite close to the house and contained many choice young trees just coming into bearing. Uncle Blair was very proud of this fruit and Bob sympathized with him so heartily as to almost feel that the apples were a particular credit to himself. So his wrath was great one day when he heard Peleg saying: “ Well, ’Squire Blair, them Squantum Hill boys have got an idea of the near orchard this year. Seems they stole’ the best part of the high bough sweets last night.” “Tut, tut!” said Uncle Blair, mildly. “ That’s very bad. What did the poor fellows want to plague me so for?” “ ’Cause your apples are best in town, I expect,” drawled Peleg, and Bob exclaimed : “ It’s a blazing shame, uncle ! Won’t you put them in jail?” “It would be difficult to prove what boys were guilty, Bob. We must be patient and keep a closer watch on the trees,” said his uncle. Bob thought this remark too easy, as he rushed away to tell Jamie the bad news. “ It’s stealing, and awfully mean,” he said. “ Maybe they don’t know any better,” said Lina, who hated to hear anyone blamed for any cause whatever, “And everybody doesn’t call it steal* ing to take fruit,” said Jamie, who always sided with Lina. “ Don’t you remember Sanford Miles said the college boys used to go out and rob people’s orchards just for a joke?” “ Then I’ll never go to college if it’s going to turn me into a sneak and $ thief!” hotly replied Bob, who had valiantly attacked the Latin grammar last term at school, and looked with admiration on the first class, who were to enter Y ale next year. “ Anyhow, I should not think you'd excuse those Squantum Hill boys when they were stealing Uncle Blair’s apples!” Bob pleaded to share Peleg’s watch that night, but whether the rogues suspected a trap or whether they had other trees on hand they came no more nor for several nights. “ Scared, maybe,” said Peleg. “/’d scare ’em if you would only let me have your gun and sit up,” said Bob. “And shoot yourself? That wouldn’t pay,” answered Peleg, provokingly. “lean fire a gun; papa taught me, and I’m not such a noodle as to point it at anyone, unloaded or not,” said Bob rather grandly. “My father believes in teaching and trusting his boys.” But zeal burned in Bob’s heart to distinguish himself and disconcert the Squantum boys, who, he felt sure; had not made their only raid on the near orchard. So one night, when he tossed wakefully on his little white bed thinking of it, it came into his mind to get up softly and just *look to see if all was right. To think was to act with Bob. He? slipped into his clothes, crept downstairs and let himself out at the side door. ,t« A few steps onward the fence of the near orchard loomed up in the starlight. All was still, the trees stood shadowy and dark in the gloom, and Bob was just turning back /when he heard a rustle and stealthily-approaching footsteps. It was a moment’s work to'dash to the house, up into Peleg’s room, and shake that worthy man from his first slumbers. “ Wake up—the near orchard’s stealing the Squantum boys—get your shoot and gun ’em!” roared Bob, dancing about in excitement. “ Ugh! eh? apples? yes, sir! grunted Peleg, but in less time than it takes to write it be was awake, dressed, and hurried out, closely followed by Bob the bold. A dark figure ran along under the trees and climbed the farther fence just as Peleg came up. “ Hoh! stop there!” he shouted, giving chase at once; and Bob, knowing that his legs would not be sufficient for the race, clapped his hands in glee and went back to explain matters to the awakened family, It w r as an hour before Peleg came back. “Did you catch him?” asked Bob, eagerly. “ Catch him! I’ll catch you," began Peleg, fiercely; and then goodnature overcame wrath and he uttered a peal of sonorous laughter. “ It was old Deacon Fales going home across lots from seeing the sick Wellmans up on the hill,” he explained as soon as he could speak. “He thought my yell was some Squantum roughs and was scared. So he ran and I after him, bumping up against trees, sloshing into the mud—there! Such a chase you never saw. Finally I collared him and we were just the surprisedest pair then! I had to go clear home with him,Tor the poor old man was all beat out running.” N . There was great laughter over Peleg’s storv and the result of Bob’s zeal. “1 should think you could have told Deacon Fales’ broad back from a Squantum boy if it was dark,” said Bob, full of mirth. “Never mind; I’ll be even with you yet,” said Peleg, and with this mysterious threat he went to bed again and so did the others, though Bob awoke Jamie twice by over the mistaken chase. ” A few days went by, and the apples in the near orchard were ready for gather-

ing. “It shall be done to-morrow of the next day," said Uncle Blair, and Peleg carried out baskets and ladders, that the work might begin in the early morning. Then Bob sought Jamie, excited with a grand scheme. “Those fellows will be sure to come to-night/’ he said. “They took half Mr. Hall’s ' fruit the veiy night before he meant to pick it. Let’s watch the orchard.” , , “How? Auntie'will never let us stay out doors all night,” said Jamie, interested but doubtful. 1 ———- Bob’s wit foresaw this, and it was his plan to spend the night in the tool-house chamber, an-unfurnished room given up to the boys for a rainy-day play place, with a square window looking out aireetly into the near orchard. It took much coaxing to gain consent to this, but at last Bob carried up his small bed and a pair of blankets, set the window wide open, and surveyed the scene with satisfaction. “ You can lie down and I’ll take the first watch,” he said to his brother. “ Uncle wouldn’t let me put anything but powder in this pistol, but the noise will frighten them, and Peleg agreed to come out when he heard it. It will be moonlight, but the window is in shadow, so I can see and not be seen.” Nine o’clock found the boys at their posts, Jamie protesting he would never fall asleep, Bob sitting on a cushion under the window, his head on a level with the sill, and his eyes very bright and wide open. The moon must have laughed at the picture it saw as it struggled through the clouds and sailed across the sky, but moon and clouds had disappeared when the rising sun flung a handful of rays right in Bob’s face, and with a great start he awoke. “I say, Jamie!” he cried, springing up, and then he rubbed his eyes and stared about. The useless pistol lay where it fell from his hand. Jamie slept peacefully, curled up iu a blanket, and on the trees before the window, the trees so loaded twelve hours before, not an apple hung! A few scattered ones and the trodden,;, turf told the story of some skillful midnight marauders, unseen and unheard by the little watchmaff. To say that Bob danced with rage as he had once danced with glee is to feebly picture his state; but he was a sensible boy, and soon grew calm, awoke his brother, and, outwardly composed, went down to meet the family. “ Didn’t hear any pistol last night," said Peleg, who was lingering near the door as the hoys came in. “Welcome, brave watchman!” said Uncle Blair. “ After breakfast you will deserve a lion’s share in the apple-gath-ering.” Bob coughed; the words choked him; then he said, red but manful : “ Uncle—l—the truth is—l was such a baby as to go to sleep—and the apples are picked by somebody. I’m so ashamed I shan’t mind what anybpdy says.” “ Ha, ha, ha!” roared Peleg, while two tears of pride and shame rose to Bob’s eyes. He would not let them fall, however. “Bravo!” said Uncle Blair. “You don’t deserve any longer triaL Come here, Bob.” He led the wondering boy to the large store-house, and there, lying each kind in its bin, was the fruit from the near orchard. There was no mistaking it, rosy and golden and fragrant, the family royal of apples. “Ho, ho! hg, ha, ha!” and Peleg doubled up with laughter again. “ I said I’d be even with you, didn’t I ?*’ “ Did you do it?” gasped Bob, thinking himself in a dream. “ Well, I did—l and the men. Worked like beavers in the moonlight, and didn’t make a mite of noise. Fact is, I went out and found you asleep, and couldn’t help joking you, ’cause I owed you for chasing Deacon Fales, you know. I will say you’ve got good grit to take a joke,” added Peleg, candidly. “ I don’t care now,” said Bob, flinging his head down and his heels up with a squeal of delight. “As long as those Squantum fellows haven’t really got them I can stand it. Good for you, Peleg; you’ve beaten me this time." — Christian Union.

Management of House-Plants in Cold Weather.

Many persons succeed admirably in their management of house-plants during the growing season so long as the weather is warm, but as soon as the growing year is over and potted plants require protection within doors they put on a deathly appearance. The indoor plants of a lady friend at this season of the year always appear as sickly, forlorn and withered as the solitary maid of two score and ten who now and then gets impressive glimpses of The doleful shades of the realm far off Where spinsters die of the whooping cough. During the warm weather her plants flourish luxuriantly, but as soon as cold weather comes on the plants are left on the veranda, where they get chilled almost to death. Then they are placed out of doors for several hours in the cold rain when the temperature of the atmosphere is almost down to freezing point. Such management ruins tender plants. Roses and geraniums are things of life. Cold winds and cold water applied to the leaves and to the soil in which they are growing is so detrimental to their vitality that all their beaunr and luxuriance will soon disappear. House-plants need an atmosphere of uniform temperature day and night. As often as once every week every pot should be submerged in tepid water, say for a few minutes, long enough to allow the water to fill all the pores in the soil. When' treated in this manner the warm water will convey sufficient heat to all the soil to warm up every particle. The pots should not be allowed to remain in the water and soak, and soak and soak until the vitality of the soil is completely drowned. Let the contents of each pot have one thorough submerging every week and then sprinkle the surface always with warm water as often as the soil begins to appear a little dry. In addition to the foregoing suggestions let the pots be kept on a high table or flower-stand in a room that is always comfortably warm. During the long and cold nights let the flower-stands be rolled away from the cold windows near the middle of the room. The gas from coal stoves frequently destroys all vitality in the leaves of growing plants. Insects on the leaves may be destroyed by dipping the branches in a strong soapsuds. After holding the leaves and stems in the warm suds for two or three minutes lei. the plants be washed with warm water. — Agricola , in N. T. Herald. The grandmother of the; bride at a wedding in Covington, Ky., recently* officiated as bridesmaid. . '