Rensselaer Union, Volume 9, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 November 1876 — Page 3

‘ . ■ ■ I •**'»* r* ! S * The Rensselaer Union. RENSSELAER, - - INDIANA.

TWO AND ONE. Two mountain xtroamlotn seeking Lose ways to th»/«Rie m»; Two toss that omh but eohoea To make teem harmony; Two clouds at sunset ranging The western fields of lights One glowing gold, one changing Rough ways to the sante shrine*. Two right hands lifted upward Fftc ou*e lift's red wine. Two small streams make together A river swift and strong; Two voices make new music * If blondod in one song; And in the western heaven Hrranve wondrous tints unfold, When cloud In. white and purple Mevte elend In red and gold; And a smoother road leads upward Than lonely saint e’er knew. Through fragrant, lands, where one strong hand Most gather grapes for two. So muale is wedded to music. And Htreaui dud stream are one. And cloi.d is the bride of, cloudlet In the sola e of the sun: And a lire that is weak and wanting Rounds to a perfect whole, When spirit is one with spirit And soul Is wedded to soul. —Marg L. Dickinson, in M. Y. Evening Pott.

A DEAD-LETTER ROMANCE.

It was very long ago—as far back as 1835, if the old clerks in the New York Postoffiee remember correctly—that she first began to come to the general delivery window—a modest, plainly-clad lady, with a sweet, sober face and a gentle manner. She was as regular as the moon, and like the moon came monthly, generally pn the first Saturday of the month, and always found a letter awaiting her, folded in the same sort of an envelope; always addressed in the same cramped, angular hand to ! MARIA H. RUSSELL, : : Naw Yobk PosTOFFicn. : L‘ • • •: It was always a “ drop-letter,” one of the many thousands th,at found their way through the little crevice in the wall daily, and no one ever knew who brought it f although, when the regularity of her visits began to attract attention, the unknown correspondent was carefully watched for about the first Friday of every month. But it was never known who brought that strange yellow envelope, nor did anyone ever get a glimpse of its contents, although Its outside was examined with curiosity a great many times. And the mysterious letter passed along like the thousands of daily messages of love and hate, of mortification and pleasure, of good cheer and evil bidding—the duns and rcmittances and promises to pay. Years passed. The delivery clerks were changed one after another; some of them died; others were promoted; some went to other employment; but as each left he told the story of the strange woman to his successor as a part of the instructions of the office, and the new clerks soon became familiar with her visits as the months went by. She was often questioned; inquisitive glanoes were often cast into her face, and several times she was followed by curious fellows; but no one ever discovered whence she came or whither she went. One day a new clerk who had conceived a scheme to discover her identity told her he was not sure the letter belonged to her, as he knew other ladies in the city of the same name, and asked her if there was not some one in the neighborhood whom she could call to identify her. “ I am a stranger in this part of the city, sir,” was her quiet, dignified reply, “ but I have been here a good many times and never before was naked to prove my identity. If it will be of any satisfaction to ypu I Will describe the appearance of the letter I expect—but wait; lam quite sure it will correspond with this one”— and she took from a little reticule she always carried the one she had received a month before. A whole generation had passed away. Men ands women had been bom and buried, but still the queer letters came, and were called for by the queer woman. The clerks in the Postoffiee had heard of her from those who had preceded them, and her mysterious appearances had gained a romance with age, and strange stories that had been invented by the clerks long before were told of her as true. Her face was smooth and round and placid when she first came, but it was getting wrinkled, and her hair was getting gra/. One time, only once for twenty years, as nearly as couldj>e_ remembered, she failed to corned and "one, two, three letters were waiting for her in the pigeonhole. The clerk did not advertise them nor send thqrn to the Dead-Letter Office with the rest, for he knew if Maria Russell was living she would come for them Id time, and i? she was dead nothing could be gained by hurrying them off to the great mail morgue where all unclaimed letters go. But after four months her familiar face appeared at the window again, and the olerk was as glad to see her as if she had been an old friend. But it was not the face he used to see. Its calm smoothness was shrunken; its fullness was wasted; there were deep drawn lines around the mouth and eyes, and the fresh flush had turned to a wan paleness A friendly greeting was on the tongue of the clerk as lie turned to meet her, but when hs saw how pale she was, how wasted, and how the calm expression of her face had been erased and covered with the autograph of pain, he suppressed the cordial words that were pushing his lips oped, and simply remarked: ;“ You have been sick t” , “ Yes, I have been sick,” she said, and gathering her letters in her hatid she left the window, and, like a snowflake in the sea, melted away into the surging wave of humanity that was roaring in the street outside. Af’er this she came regularly again, but the paleness never left her face, and the wrinkles lengthened and deepened instead

of growing ess. The clerks began to talk ©f her changed appearance, ana concluded that she was suffering from some cause, they could not decide just what, although there were plenty of reasons suggested, and it was concluded at an informal meeting behind the wall of boxes fa the postomce one day, that the next time she came it was their duty to find oat If she was needing anything that they with their ill-filled purses could supply. So when she came the elerk who happened to be at the window held her letter in his hand a moment to delay her, and said with a great deal of trepidation— for the mystery qf her life and the distant self-possesion of her manner discouraged anjKJnquisilive attaehu: “ I pray you to excuse me, madam:

but I thought that if you were in any sort of need—” “ I am very well cared for, thank you,” she interrupted. “ You have a letter for me, I see.” And she was gone again. The clerk went back to his fellows, and being a person of pride related the incident, with some details that were not supplied in the occurrence. He said he had tendered the lady in their name, as delicately as possible, any aid that she might need, explaining to her that they had learned from long association to feel an interest in her, and hoped if she was in want of any of the necessaries of life, or if she needed any assistance of any kind, that they would assist her to the extent of their abilities. The clerks applauded the deftness with which their fellow had performed the duty, and inquired anxiously for her reply. “ She told me,” he said, “ that she was in good circumstances, and was not Just now in want of any assistance, but, with our permission, she would remember our kina offer, and if ever in need would not hesitate to call upon us.” And if she had been a heroine formerly she became a goddess from that hour out —a goddess in an old-fashioned, shabby legbord bonnet, a rusty broche shawl, and a reticule like the ones their grandmothers carried. But she was as divine to those habit-hardened Postoffice clerks as ever was Bt. Cecelia to the tone poets of the mediaeval, or St. Agatha to the suffering women of the church. The gray hair of the goddess had grown much thinner in the last few years, her eyes were sinking back under her temples and growing dim, and the hands that clasped the letter as each month came round were getting very gaunt and shriveled. The war came on, the mails were laden down with messages of sorrow and bereavement ; the clerks were hurried off as soldiers, and the widows and sisters of those whose places they went to fill came along into the postoffice to do the public service; but the wan old woman came Just the same as ever, and the yellowwrapped letter was always waiting her there.

The war was over; the clerks who went out to fight came back limping and armless, to inquire after their mysterious friend. She was still coming, out soon after, in March, 1865, she was seen for the last time. The letter came as usual, one of the first days of April, but no one called for it. The clerk, who was a lady, then put it aside as if it was too good for its company, and kept it near the window, so that it would be ready when Maria Russell came. Another month went by, and another letter came, which was put away with its mate. Two more months and two more letters, and four of them were lying there in a pile, waiting for the queer old woman—“ the mysterious woman of the delivery window” they called her now—to come for them. often those letters were examined. How closely the address and the seal were scanned, how they were held up to the light so that maybe a word of their contents might be discovered. What a temptation they were. The chief of the delivery office ordered them advertised. “No,” said the clerks. “She will come for them. She knows they are here. She must be sick or something. She has come for them for thirty years, and they never have been advertised yet. Let them wait another month.” So they waited another month, two more, and still tire queer old woman didn’t come. And they had to be advertised. On a long list in the newspapers, near the bottom, under the head of “Ladies’ Letters,” were these words: Russell, Maria H., 6. People glanced at them—almost everybody looks over the list of advertised letters to see if by some chance one belonging to them had strayed among the vagabonds, and people remarked: “I wonder who Maria H. Russell is; she lias six letters advertised.” To the clerks in the Postoffiee it seemed a shame that old Mrs. or Miss (perhaps she was an old maid) Russell’s letters should be advertised, and stuck off into a dirty corner with a lot of soiled envelopes, and there was quite an indignation meeting held over the matter. But still the queer old woman did not come. “Perhaps she is dead," they said, ‘ • poor thing. Perhaps she is dead. ’ ’ But if there were whispers of displeasure when the letters were advertised, there was a storm of wrath when the clerk announced that they must be sent to the Dead-Letter Office. The Postmaster was appealed to. He was a man of business, ana didn’t care much for romance, so he said the letters must go, and the rules of the department carried out, and that the seventh letter, which had come in since the six were advertised, must go with fiiem. But through? all the sorrow there was gleaming the sunshine of relief. At the Dead-Letter Office it would be found out what tliese mysterious envelopes contained. And the lady who made up the packages for the Dead-Letter Office pinned this note to Maria Russell’s seven letters: These are very peculiar letters. They belong to a woman who has been coming to the Post fflee r gularlv every month for thirty years; but she has ceased to come, and we think she is dead. Whoever opens these letters will canter a great favor by informing the clerks of the New York Postoffice of their contents, as we have u great curiosity to know who Maria Russell is, or w >s, ana something about the pen *i who has been sending her these letters regularly for so long.

This note was submitted to a convention of clerks, and declared unanimously to be the proper thing. 1 reply was awaited anxiously. Before it came two more letters had followed their fellows in, and were waiting for Maria Russell; but she never came to get them, and they were sent off like the rest to have their secrets revealed in the great mail morgue at Washington. Finally there came, an envelope addressed to “ The clerks of the New York Postofflce," and it was opened by the first person included in that category into whose hands it came. That person read the Inclosure hurriedly through, and called a convention to which he read the following: Although it is directly against the rules of the office, I take the responsibility of gratifying your curiosity. Nine letters addressed to Maria H. Russell ha* e come to my hands. E .ch one contained a brief note, calling attention to an inclosure, without date or signature. Each inclosure was « flve-dollar bill. We have a great deal of curiosity ourselves here to learn something about this strange matter. Won’t some of you write us what you knows And if any further disclosures are made we will inform you. Here was a romance indeed. Nine unsigned note©, each with a similar inclosure of money. Was it possible, they thought, that for thirty years these same sort of letters, with the same inclosures, had oeen coming to Maria Russell. And why didn't they stop, if she was dead, as she certainly must be. The whole Postoffice was excited and perplexed in Ils es-

forts to find a solution of this mystery. But there was no clue to Mrs. or Miss Russell; nor clue to her mysterious oorrespondent I cannot repeat the many theories that were advanced, or the many speculations that were put out to explain the matter; but each was a different one, and each had as good ground for believing his the true one as any other, because none of them had any ground at all. To add to the mystery, seme one brought in a daily paper which contained the tollowing advertisement : Pbksonxl.—Any person having any knowledge of the whereabouts of Maria EL Russen, who has been a resident of this city for thirty years, will relieve a terrible anxiety by communicating with C. B. R-, Postoffiee. What a sensation that personal made in the Postoffiee Department. Here at last was a clue to the unknown correspondent who was wondering why he had received no acknowledgement to his letters tor nine months; and to add to the excitement another letter, in the same pale-yellow style of envelope, addressed in the same familiar chirography, was tossed with hundreds of others to the distributor’s table, where it came to light. Fifty letters were addressed to “C. B. R.,” each of which stated that they had important information concerning Maria H. Russell; but before many of them were mailed it leaked out that the personal was put in the papers by one of the clerks, who hoped to reach in advance of his felloes a clue to the mystery. But nothing satisfactory resulted even from the personal. Several Maria Russell’s turned up to answer it, and were very much disgusted to find they weren’t the person wanted; but it brought no clue to the curious old lady and her curious correspondent. Four, five, six years went by. and each month brought as regularly as the month came around a letter for Maria H. Russell. The reverence with which these letters were treated was a new feature in the Postoffice Department. It was a satisfaction even to handle them and feel of the thin, limpsy inclosure, and with what agony of interest they were advertised, and finally sent ; away to the Dead-Letter Office each thirty days to be deposited with the others Just like them that had gone before. One day nearly two years ago a clerk in the postoffice told a friend who was con-' nected with a newspaper of the circumstances, and a brief statement of facts was published. The paragraph was widely quoted—republished in almost every paper in the United States. And with this publication the letters stopped coming. The last one was postmarked March 4, 1875. it is thought that the mysterious correspondent saw the paragraph, and knew in that way that Maria Russell was dead—for she must be dead, or she would have called for her letters in the years that had gone since she got the last. But it may be asked why the unknown correspondent doesn’t send to the DeadLetter Office and claim his money—the money he sent so faithfully each month to Maria Russell, even for ten years after she was dead and gone. A large number of claims have been made for the money since the publication last year, and a variety of singular stories have been told to account for the manner in which the correspondence was conducted. One man wrote to inform the Postoffice Department that he was the person who had been sending the money to Maria Russell these forty years agone, but as his manuscript was in - every way dissimilar from that in the original letters he was at once pronounced an impostor. A man in Sturgis, Mich., has told the strangest story and put in the strongest claim. He says that he is one of a family of five children, four brothers and one daughter. In 1835 his father and mother separated, the father taking the boys and the mother the girl, and the father agreeing to pay five dollars a month for his daughter’s support as long as he lived, but to have no communication with her in any way whatever. He says, this man in Michigan, that his father used to send the money in the manner described as long as he lived with him, but having some differences about 1846 they, the father and son, separated, the latter going West, where he has resided ever since, without having heard once from the rest of his family. He said he was in no need of the money, but would like very much to know if the strange correspondents were his father and sister. He would identify the writing, he thought, if they would send him one of the letters. Mr. Russell’s letter was strongly,indorsed by several prominent residents of Sturgis, who bore testimony to his good character and general worthiness. Mr. Dallas, the Superintendent of the Dead-Letter Office, replied that while he greatly desired to oblige Mr. Russell, it was not permitted to send any of the leL ters out of the office; but if Mr. Russell was ever in Washington he would be glad to give him any information in his power ana show him any papers in the department relating to the case. The law required that these letters and their contents be reclaimed within three years, at the end of which time the money inclosures revert to the United States Treasury, from which they cannot be recovered without a special act of Congress. On a recent visit to the Dead-Letter Office 1 saw the silent, inanimate relics of this strange mystery. A pile of plain, vellow envelopes, marked with some hieroglyphics peculiar to the dead-letter men, indicating their reference to the books of the bureau. If they could talk what a strange story they might tell. What a theme far a romance axe these dead letters—dead in every respect. Forlorn, too, the speechless Wanderers, with neither their writer nor their intended recipient to reclaim them. I opened one of them—there was no date, no signature; and written in the center of a page of blue note paper, with pale ink, in an old-fash-ioned hand that appeared to have been uncertain with age, were these few unsuggestive words: “I inclose you the money as usual. I will send more the first of next month. You need not write.”— Wm. E. Curtis, in Chicago Inter-Ocean.

—The indecent conduct of the New York journals in sending reporters to haunt the dying bed of Commodore Vanderbilt has not been in any degree affected by the expressions of indignation which it has called forth. The reporters swarm about the house, pry into ft when they have the chance, interview the members of the household, and manifest almost a feeling of regret at the pertinacious refusal of the Commodore to put himself and the world out of misery. It is. really very unkind of the Commodore not to die, as per arrangement with the newspapers? His obstinacy is proof of a hardened heart, of which, indeed, there has been frequent rumor heretofore, and the first indication of which was given in his refusal to grant the usual passes over the New York Central Railroad. But, with all his faults, the man baa rights, and, if he should apply the new doctrine of brawls in the case of his tormentors, the community would justify him.— Chicago Tribune. • ?■

“With All My worldly Goods 1 Thee Endow?’

Not many days ago, when the crowd was crushing and pressing through the Women’s building, an old couple .from the country were stepped in a narrow passage close by some woven goods shown for sale. The man was largo, hard-fea-tured and prosperous. She was stout and comely. About her face were lines of care, and the mark of hard work was upon both. But her eyes brightened as she took up a soft blue-and-whfte shawl, and looked at it with longing admiration. Over her arm was a waterproof, but this pretty fluffy thing in her hand was dainty and different from waterproofs, and the the plaid shawls of her home life. Her husband worked his way on a little further, turned, looked over his shoulder at her, and said: “Come on.” “Isn’t it pretty?” she answered, still lingering. “Yes, yee! come on.” “But Burt—” -she said in a soft, entreating tone. He shook his head. f ‘ Indeed, I would like to have it.” “ Well, you can’t,” he curtly answered, and she laid it softly down. It was not simply that she was refused ‘something that was to her beauty and grace, although the possession would have 'counted for no little in a life that, it was plain, had been denied almost everything but anxiety and hard wark —it was not because her husband caret! so little to gratify her, that the faces of some women standing near grew warm, and their eyes flashed. It was a coarse example of what the business relation between man and wife can reduce the wife unto. When the man promises to endow his bride with all he owns, it is a pretty and pleasant thing to do, but, when they have fairly started life together, she is likely to find that she is simply his agent, spending his money as he gives it to her, sometimes, perhaps, using her own Judgment, but always accounting to him. When individual tastes are to be exercised, they are more fre quently the husband’s than the wife’s. He may buy a plow to his liking, but she must consult him about the churns. It was a wise little ,wjfe who, when talking over business matters with her husband, when he told her that she should never be deprived of anything that she desired if he could obtain it for her, asked him to give her blank checks to fill up as she needed. She knew she could be trusted to draw his money, just as well as she could be to spend it, and she would be happier in feeling free to make her bwh discreet margins. But if he had gone a little farther and made the deposit in her name, and had then consulted her upon the purchase of his crayons, his canvas, and his oils —for he was an artist—if he had explained to her the reason why he bought his engravings, and why it was not extravagant to spend a little surplus fund on the etchings of Raphael’s 11 Spasimo, he would have realized, as so many women have, that the early settlement of the question of “pin-money” is not as unnecessary, nor distrustful, as some brides, and some husbands, are apt to consider it. —New Century for Woman.

The Fire-Arm Fiend.

•an any philosopher explain how it is that children playing with fire-arms never fail to shoot and kill somebody ? It appears as if some sleeping fiend m the gun is wakened by the touch of a child’s hand, seizes anebnakes it the medium of a certain death to satisfy its thirst for blood. The weapon, however old and rusty, and apparently harmless, always goes off, and never fails to reach Some vital spot. Family pistols that have been lying and rusting for years in neglected drawers, and would be deemed no sort of defense against a sudden inroad of robbers, and sure to miss fire in such an emergency, are equally sure shots in the hands of little playful children who happen to waken the presiding death fiend in their chambers. The last proof of the invariable rule was given in Cincinnati a few days ago. The experiment was made by a ten-year-old girl named Lizzie Creedman. Lizzie was assisting her mother in clearing up the house one morning. In a bureau drawer, the contents of which she was arranging, she found a little single-bar-reled pistol—a very innocent-looking plaything. It tempted examination. They always do. The little shudder occasioned by their cold touah fascinates. The fiend was awakened by the gentle fingers, and directed the muzzle against the child’s breast. Of course, the pistol was discharged. The little thing ran to the next room, where her mother was, gasped—- “ Mamma, I’m shot,” and fell dead. The doctors found the ball lodged in the heart. Let children remember that firearms in their hands never miss fire, and that somebody is sure to be killed by their touch. Do not waken the sleeping fiend. —St. Louis Republican.

In the Detroit Police Court.

THE RAMPARTS OF LIBERTY. All that I want is that facte be told and sworn to,” remarked Isaac Waters as the bell tolled him out. “lam a stranger in the middle of strangers, but I suppose Michigan law is the same as any other kind of law.” “Just the same, except Chicago law,” replied the court, “In the first place we look sot facts. Then we swear to ’em. Then we take a prisoner’s character and demeanor into consideration. If found innocent he is sent away with a new pair of Arctic overshoes on; if proven guilty, we drop a tear over his badness and put him behind the iron bars.” “ Hand me the overshoes, for I’m as innoeent as » babe,” remarked Mr. Waters. ‘•Softly, softly, though, stranger,” whispered his honor. “ Let's have some statements, a little swearing, and decide this case only after mature deliberation. The officer will now loom up before the desk and give in his testimony.” It was bad testimony for Waters, who got drunk on Michigan avenue, was kicked out of a saloon, and staggered down rhird street, upsetting children, abusing pedestrians, ana throwing mud at a man who had a standing collar on. ' “Now bring out your rebutting evidence,” said the court, when the statemenkiiad been finished. “Are there no ramparts of liberty in this State?” asked the prisoner. “Heaps of ’em sir. You can’t turn a corner in this town without punching a Goddess of Liberty in the ribs with your elbow. The American eagle learned to scream in Detroit, arid Detroit to-davyells loudest when the name of George Washington comes in by the afternoon mail. Has liberty anything to do with your red eyes and spreeful look?” “ I want a trial according to liberty!” exclaimed Mr. Waters. “You have had it. You were drunk, ugly and impudent, and 1 fine you five dollars.” ' '■ “I call upon the Constitution of the United States to protect me I” shouted the prisoner. “State rights are a neck ahead!” slowly remarked BiJah, and he fastened ids

grapplihg Irons to the man’s collar and hauled him out of the sunshine. m THU IOHO AGO. : j fig j “Ah, well do I remember ” sighed the Court as the next man passed out, “when you were a constable in the Third Ward wore a velvet coat, carried a cane, am was looked ujpon as a hlgh-Jinx, hoop-la, tip-top sort of a man. Men respected you, the boys feared you, and you could have got trusted for a small amount at any grocery in town. Those days have flea. The sparkling diamond of the past has become an old joint of stove-pipe throwi into the alley for cows to nibble at am wonder which end the grass grows on. It makes me sad to remember what you were, and to now see what you are.” “ Yes, 1 used to swell around, a gooc deal,” mused the prisoner. “ And now you are on the shrink. Your eyes look like pieces of turnip glued to red velvet; your hair looks like flax gone to seed; your nose glistens like a greased apple; you tremble all over, and no bootblack would care to be seen in your company.” “ It’s party tufl,” sighed the man, winking at his old red boots. “ Have you any ambition left t” asked the court. “ I guess so,” was the hesitating reply. “ Do you think there is any chance for you to climb up again ?” “ I druther kinder walk round and take comfort,” replied the prisoner. “Sowego,” said His Honor, as he leaned back. “ iVhen a man had as soon be the dish-cloth as the dinner-plate, it is useless to try to wring him out. I’ll have to send you up for the winter.” “Well, it’s kinder warm and nice up there,” observed, the old relic. “ I spose they might give us more oysters than they do, but I’m purty well satisfied.”— Detroit Free Frees.

The Paradise of Money-Lenders.

India must be the paradise of moneylenders. Some years ago a Christian capitalist advanced the sum of five pounds on the personal security of a Eurasian co-re-ligionist employed as a writer In a Government office. The interest whs originally orfly seventy-five per cent, per annum, but as nothing had been paid at the end of the two years the debtor gave a promissory note for the amount then due, and undertook to pay 120 per cent, for the future. Three years went by without any payments being made, and then a fresh capitalizing operation was efleated. About that time the debtor’s salary was increased, and he at once set aside a moiety of his pay for the purpose of reducing his debt. In this he succeeded so perfectly that at the time of his death, a few years later, he owed no more than £IOO. Quite recently, no further back indeed than last August, a Hindoo ihoney-lender successfully sued another mild Hindoo in the small cause court for four pounds, being the balance due on a sum of eight pounds, the outcome in two years of an advance of two pounds, the interest being calculated at the rate of seven and a half farthings per rupee per diem. How much this wo ul d’amount to per annum is one of those questions which may fitly be relegated to Mr. Babbage’s calculating machine. These two cases, however; illustrate the general poverty of India, and the infinitesimal character of its internal and, so to speak, popular trade. In some of the remote hill districts, coined money is still regarded as a curiosity to be worn about the person, business being conducted on the old principle of barter. It is not very surprising that in a country where every ryot is in debt, and where the interest on personal loans varies from seventyfive to 200 per cent., the land should be rapidly passing into the hands of moneylenders and usurers. Though not matter for surprise, it is certainly matter for regret. — Pall Mall Gazette.

For the Last Time.

There is a touch of pathos about doing even the simplest thing “for the last time.” It is not alone kissing the dead that gives you this strange pain. You feel it when you have looked your last time upon some scene you have loved—when you stand in some quiet city street where you know that you will never stand again. The actor playing his parefor the last time, the singer whose voice is cracked hopelessly, and who after this once will never stand before! the sea of upturned faces disputing the plaudits with fresher voices and fairer forms, the minister who has preached his last sermon—these all know the hidden bitterness of the two words “ never again.” How they come to us on our birthdays as we grow older! Never again young; always nearer and nearer to the vere last —the and which is universal, “ the last thing which shall follow all last things,” and turn them, let us hope, from pains to joys. We put away our boyish toys with an odd heartache. .We were too .old to walk any longer on our stilts—too tall to play marbles on the sidewalk. Yet there was a pang when we thought we had played with our merrythoughts for the fast time, and life’s serious, grown-up work was waiting for us. Now we do not want the lost toys back. Life has other’ and larger playthings for us. May it not be that these too shall seem in the light of some far off day as the boyish games seem to our manhood, and we shad learn that death is but the opening of the gate into the new land of promise?— Exchange.

A Cure for the Hiccoughs.

A writer in the Chicago Tribune, speaking of the recent death of a man in Pennsylvania from a severe attack of hiccoughs, says: Now I have seen hiccough cured instantaneously on many occasions, and have cured myself, and I have never known the following simple remedy to fail. Whenever attacked by hiccough, get some one to stand behind you and place the forefinger of each hand in your ears so as to stop mem. Then between the finger and thumb of your left hand press the nostrils, in order to sfop breathing through them. In your right hand take a glass of water, and, while the ears and nostrils are closed, drink a good draught. This will instantly cure the hiccough. I am not aware that there is any particular virtue in the. water. I have seen the cure effected by a draught of ale or porter as well as water, and believe that a drink of any liquid, warm or cold, would have the same effect, although I have-always seen it used cold. I attribute the cure to the momentary stoppage of breathing; but, whatever the cause, mv experience for years has always proved it a success. —Ex Secretary Belknap on returning to Washington a few days ago found himself and Representative Heister Clymer the only occupants of a hotel omnibus. The two were onee old friends and classmates at Princeton College, but not a word was spokao by either of them during the ride.

INCIDENTS AND ACCIDENTS.

—ln the case of a robber at Boston, the other day, an officer swore positively to knowing that the prisoner had been prowling around nights for over a year past. The man thereupon charged the officer with perjury, bringing as proof that he was only released from State’s prison in June. —A runaway horse on a Newport wharf was stopped in a novel way, recently, by a boat-builder who chanced to hepassing, with a broom in one hand and a pail of water in the other. Hearing the Shouting of “Whoa!” “Whoa!" the man threw down his broom, planted his feet firmly, and as the horse came up, let fly the oontents of his pail, hitting the horse squarely in the face and eyes, and stopping him as suddenly as if he had been shot.

—Master Eddie Dawne, a lad at twelve years of age, started on Tuesday to join his father in Salem, Oregon, alone, and without a familiar hand to direct him on his long tourney of over 2,800 miles. The little fellow made his start under the direction of Mr. Kelsey, of the Planters* House, who had been requested by the father to perform this service. Master Eddie had ho fear of his ability to get through “All O. K.,” and when cautioned to be careful, said: “ Never fear; I’ll pretend to be a man ’Ol I get homeJt—tf. Zouw (fabe-DemoorttC. , k —The Jacksonville (Fla.) Union says: “ The brightness of the lamps in the lighthouses of our coasts frequently produces great destruction among the birds. As they fly along the beach tn the gloom of evening, dr seek the shelter of the land when the ocean breeze blows too strong fortheir comfort or pleasure, they are dazzled by the brilliancy of the lights in the towers, and frequently fly blindly against the glass of the building, crushing and breaking their bones, and often killing them instantly. On Wednesday

evening vast numbers flew against the tower at Mareport and were killed, or so badly bruised that they crawled away to die. It is said one of the light-keepers swept off in the morning 800 dead birds from the top of the towers, and that many others were scattered on the ground at its foot.” , —A few days ago, as an excursion train of eighteen heavily-loaded cats on the Vermont division of the Portland & Ogdensburg Railroad had begun the descent of a heavy grade between St. Johnsbury and the Connecticut River, the engineer suddenly descried three cattle übon . the track just in advance of him. To drive or frighten them from the track, '’or to seasonably stop the train, was impossible. Instantly he decided upon his course. He sent his fireman to disconnect his engine and tender from the tyain, whistled “ down brakes,” and with full steam on plunged forward alone, and with the fearful impetus thus gained threw the cattle from the track. He then quietly allowed the train to overtake him agdin, connected it and continued on, his passengers knowing nothing of the fearful danger they had escaped by his bravety,hls quick wit, and his fidelity to duty. —Rutland (Ft.) Herald. I > —Mary Maguire Journeyed from Ireland six yfeart’agb and settled in Bayonnd with ier son Johm He died, and she was sent to the Snake-Hill Almshouse. Last week she returned to Bayonne, and begged for money to send her to Ireland, where she could die surrounded by her friends. She is over seventy* years old. Chief of Police Whitney procured her the passage money, and on Wednesday visited the residence of a friend, 'Where the old lady was living. She could hardly restrain her Joy when told that he was to conduc her to the steamship. After she had badet farewell to her hostess, and was on the threshold of the door, she uttered a slight scream and fell to the floor. She died before medical assistance could be procured. Death, the physicians said, was from excess of joy.— New York Paper. —Another of the' Smith family has carved for himself a niche in the temple of fame, and in a manner so novel, as to deserve record. It was in Ellis County, Texas, one evening recently, while Jessie Smith and his wife were walking home on a railway track from a neighbor’s, where they had been to tea. Their converse was suddenly interrupted by the appearance, within a few feet and still apS reaching them, of a large black bear. [r. Smith was unarmed,,contyary to. Texas usage; the night was too dark for a foot-race with a bear, and, besides, his chivalric nature revolted at the thought of deserting his wife, the mother of the little Smiths at home. The situation called for action, apd Mr. Smith was equal to the occasion. The soil was sandy, and, gathering up a couple of handfuls, Mr. Smith pushed toward bruin and threw it into his face. The bear’s advance was checked. Following up the momentary’ advantage with enthusiasm, Mr. Smith speedily filled the bear’s eyes with sand and cempelled it to retreat, when the victor and his proud spouse—proud in the possession ?f a husband worthy of the name of Smith—resumed their walk over the railroad ties toward their home, whiel| they reached without further molestation. ' 1

An Imaginary Murderess.

The London Daily Newt reports: “As the facts are reported, a well-dressed woman spoke to a policy officer in one of the streets of London, and told him that she had committed a murder. She was taken at once to a police station, and there she described herself as a nurse fa a workhouse, and declared that for-a long time she had been filled withfeelfags of hatred and revenge against one of the matrons; that she had watched for and found an opportunity, knocked the matron down, stunned her, and then killed her by cutting her throat with a mor. After this she wrapped the body in her bedclothes and hid it under her bed. This done, she intended to make her escape,- but she thought there would be no safety, and she became Stricken 'by remorse, and determined upon giving herself- up.- The police accordingly made inquiries, and they found one rather important point incorrect The woman said to be murdered was alive, and well. In the room of the alleged murderess there was found, indeed, a long bundle or roll under the bed; but the bundle on being opened was found to contain no human body, only a bolster. The woman who accused herself was examined by a medical man, _ but he appears to have been unable to give any decided opinion at once as to whether she was sane or insane.” Fhom statistics collected R seems that lightning is more dangerous in Europa than fa this country, On an average seventy-seven people are killqd every year by it in France, and the annual list of killed in this manner amounts to 260 persons. Eighty were wounded and ulne killed fa one storm at Chateauneuf-les-Montiero in 1861. Twenty-two are killed by lightning every year in England, nine fa Switzerland and three fa Belgium.