Rensselaer Union, Volume 9, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 July 1877 — Page 3

The Rensselaer Union. RENSSELAER, - * INDIANA.

THE TWO SERPENTS. AW OaiANTAL FASLU. Carioa*A, the Sultan, unt hi* son With B*l b, the wl«e; and, when the boy wa* iloim s-1: With studious task*. It wa* the teacher's way Tb weave for nlm *ome moral tale each day. Oh* evening when the hour had come around, Thl* tale he told—ln Fenian annals found: “ One* a magician. skilled In every art, < Meeting Kins Lohak, breathed upon hts heart, When from that region, venomous and bright. Two hideous serpents wriggled forth in sight. The King, who raw them follow in his path. Stormed the magician with his fiercest wrath ( But he, undaunted, answered back again i ‘These are the tokens of your glorious reign; tiuid, if you wish henceforth nnbonuded good. Fail not to feed them well with human blood; Give them vour s tardiest men in sacrifice For their supnort—for this is lust and wise.' The King, at nrt>t, «rew pale when this was said, ‘ But by degree* to ils result was led, Apd scatteredslaughter till tumultuous fear •fniote all hU stricken subjects far and near. At idngih his people, teeing to many slain. Revolted at the King's bloodthirsty reign, Aml.locked him In a cavern far away. Where to the serpents he himself was prey.” “ O history horrlblo!” the young Prince said. “ What could have pot such baseness in his heads Now tell another tale, more fair, I pray. That I with shuddering may not end the day.” ” Most wldtngly,” said Saib, “ and when 'tls done, You will confess it is a simple one: “ One* 1 on a time, a young Saltan was led To hoed nil things an artful courtier said. Who crammed him with delusions that were ' rife . With all the poignancies of slnfnl life— With dretms of glory and imagined joy, And'things that dazzle only to annoy. . Pride and voluptuousness performed their part Till they became joint ruler* or his heart: And, held by ihese, above his people's groan j He walked, until they snatched nlm From the , throne. Still, though he lost his crown. Pleasure and Pride Clung, like two adders perched upon his side. Till, sinking down within their colling snare. He died, at length, of sorrow and despair.” Then said the Prince, when Saib paused for rest, “ Untrue or true. X like this tale the best.” “ Alasl” said Ssib, ” why do you thus exclaim? Better or not—both stories are the samel” • -Jotl Benton, in Appleton't Journal.

NELLIE IN THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

On the lonely Carolina coast are many small islands, interspersed with sandy shoals and rocky reefs, which render it dangerous for vessels that approach too near. On this account light-houses are established at proper intervals, and it is about the dwellers in one of these that I have a little story to tell. The name of the keeper of this lighthouse was John Lattie. His wife was dead, and he lived there with his two children, and a iaithful and attached negro couple, whom the children called Mammy Sylvie and Uncle Brister. Sylvie had been their nurse, and both she and her husband loved them as though they had been their own. Tou may think a light-house on a small island—where no one else lived except two fishermen’s families—a lonely place for two children. Perhaps it was; but Jack and Nellie did not think so. In good weather they had splendid times on the beaeh, running up and down the firm white sand, hiding amid the rough rocks that at low tide stood above the water, or picking up pretty shells, and bils|of many -colored sea-weed, thrown up by the waves. Sometimes they played with the. waves themselves, as merrily as though they had been living playmates. They would go low down to the water’s edge, and watch some swelling billow as it came rolling onward to the shore, and cry defiantly: “Come on! you can’t catch us!” and then, as the white foam-crest curled threateningly over toward them, they would run up the beach, with the billbw in full chase, until the fbamy crest broke about their bare little feet, and went gently sliding back into the sea, to give place to another. Sometimes the billow would overtake them and give them a thorough drenching; but mis only excited their mirth. For sea-water does not give chills and colds, and it soon dries; and as their dress was coarse and simple, there was no danger of that being hurt. One day, by some accident, the glass of the lighthouse was broken, and Mr, Lattie fauna it necessary to go in his boat to the main-land, in order to procure materials for repairing it. The little town at which he made these purchases was some five or six miles inland, »ad he might not return until quite late. “ If I.am not lack before sunset, Brister,” said he to his sable assistant, “be sure to light the lamp in time. You know it will be as necessary to me as to others.” He said this because between the lighthouse and the Bhore were many dangerous rocks, some lying beneath the surface of the water and others above it, to run upon which in the dark would break a boat to pieces. But Mr. Lattie was familiar with the channel and he knew that, with the light for a guide, he could steer so as to avoid the rocks. Now, Mr. Lattie had not been longgone when there came to the light-house, in hot haste, a little, ragged boy, begging that Aunt Sylvie would come to his mother, who had been taken suddenly and dangerously ill. There was no doctor on the islasd, and Sylvie was very clever as a nurse. -So she hastened awqy with all speed to the fisherman’s wife, who lived quite a mile distant, at the opposite extremity of the island—first, however, telling the children to be good and not stray away from the light house, and warning her “ole man” to take good care of them, well knowing, at the same time, that such warning was not necessary, for Uncle Brister would have sacrificed his own life for the little ones, whom he had helped to carry in his arms almost from the day of their birth. They were gentle and obedient children, though it had always been observed that Nellie, who was only seven years old, possessed much more firmness and decision of character than Jack, nearly two years his senior. She was also more generous; and I am afraid that, with all her decision, she gave up too much to her brother, and helped to make him selfish. For instance, if they were sent to Jem Long’s for fish, generally it was Nellie who carried the basket, while Jack amused himself with playing by the way: or, if Sylvie made ginger-cakes or “ puffs,” and gave the two first baked to the children, it was Jack who claimed the biggest or the nicest-looking, and not unfrequently got a taste of Nellie’s also. Tne children played all this morning very happily together, building a fort of loose rocks, like the great stone fort which they could see in the distance, many miles away. In the afternoon they went indoors, where they found Brister standing at one of the windows, shading his eyes with his hand and looking anxiously toward the west. , ■ , “ Do you see the boat, Uncle Brister T” inquired Jack, standing on tip-toe to look out. “Please deLord, I wish 1 could dat,” answered the old man, more as if speakng to' himself than to them. “ I don’t 7

like de look* o’ dat ’ere akv, and dere ain’t never no good In demswitchy mare’a tails,” pointing to some long, scattered clouds which were moving rapidly up from the west. “Es I knows anythlng’t all, I knows we’se gwiue to have asqneelin’, equatin' storm. Please de Lord Masaa and Bylvie was safe home.” The old man’s prediction was correct. In less than an hour tbe wind burst upon them, the waves were lashed into foam, and the storm roared hround the lighthouse in all its fury. The children, sitting by the fire, listened to the roaring of the wind and the waves without, and felt the walls tremble with the force of the tempest. Old Brister had gone about and made all secure; and now, as it began to grow dusk, he started up the winding staircase that led to the top of the tower, in order to light the lamp. As he crossed the room the children noticed that he staggered a little, and caught hold of the door-post to steady himself. Then he put his hand to his forehead, and so stood still a moment; then began feebly to ascend the stairs. An instant after then was a heavy fall and, to their horror, the children saw the old man lying at the foot of the stairs, motionless and, apparently, dead. They started up with a cry and rushed toward him. He was not bleeding anywhere, but his breathing was thick and heavy, and though his eyes were open he did not appear to see them, or to know anything. The truth was, the old man had had a stroke of apoplexy. “ What shall we do? oh, what shall we do?” cried Nellie, bursting into an agony of tears. “ We can’t do anything,” sobbed Jack, hopelessly. “I wish, oh! I wish father and Mammy Sylvie were here.” Nellie, kneeling by the side of Brister, seemed to make an effort at composure. “Jack,” she said, more calmly, “ don’t you think we might warm him, and rub him, and give him a little hot brandy to drink ? That is the way they brought the drowned men to life again.” “26 ain’t drowned,” answered Jack, with a little expression of contempt for his sister’s suggestion. “ Yes; but it might do him good. Feel how cold his hands are, and rubbing might do him some good. Oh, Jack, let us try to pull him to the fire!” With great difficulty they succeeded in drawing the old man in front of the great hearth, where Nellie placed pillows under his head, and covered him with a blanket. Then she heated a little brandy, and put a spoonful between Brister’s lips, and the two children then commenced rubbing him with all their little strength, though Nellie trembled and the tears rolled down Jack’s face. But, in truth, itwas a trying situation for them, alone and helpless as they were. Suddenly Nellie started up with a ciy. “ The lamp, Jack! Oh, Jack, the lamp isn’t lighted!” It was dark now, and the storm, though subsiding, still raged. How many fish-ing-vessels out at sea, and caught in that sudden storm, were now vainly looking out for the warning beacon that was to save them from danger and guide them into safety; and her father! Did she not remember his parting words to Brister: “Be sure and light the lamp in good time. It is as necessary to me as to them.” a And the lamp was not lighted! In storm and darkness her father might be even now struggling amid those foaming waves and treacherous rocks; for the child felt instinctively that no danger could keep him back from the post of nis duty and the loved ones dependent upon him. Eagerly, tremblingly, Nellie rose to her feet* “ Oh, Jack, father! We mutt light the lamp!" “We can’t,” answered poor, frightened Jack, helplessly. “ We don’t know how.” She felt that it would be of no use toappeal farther to him—not that Jack was heartless, but irresolute and vacillating when thrown upon his own resources. So Nellie—brave little heart —resolved to do the best she could. “ You can stay and take care of Uncle Brister, Jack,” she said; “and rub him all you can. 1 will try to light the lamp.” “ But you don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want to stay by myself,” said Jack, blubbering; “ I wish father was here.” Nellie went carefully up the narrow winding stair to the top of the light-house. She had seldom been here, and had never seen the lamp lighted, and, as Jack had said, knew nothing about it; and she now found to her dismay that she could not reach the lamp. The wind and the rain beat against the thick glass by which this little room in the top of the tower was surrounded, and swept in strong fitful gusts through the broken panes; and Nellie thougnt that even were she able to light the lamp, it must inevitably be put out again. What was to be done ? If she could only keep a light of any kind burning, it might be of some use. There was a large lantern down-stairs, she knew; and hurrying down she got this, and lighting it, carried it up again, and hung it where she trusted it might be seen. But it shone so feebly, that sbe feared It woald not be noticed, or might even be taken for the light of a fisherman’s cottage, in which case it would serve only to lead astray instead of guiding safely. Poor little Nellie wrung her hands in despair. Oh, if she only had somebody to help her! How futile, and forlorn, and miserable she felt! And just then—she never knew how it was—just then she seemed to hear, amid ail the roar of the storm, the sweet words of the hvmn her dead mother had been so fond of singing, “ Jesus, lover of my soul.” She knew It by heart, and now she stood involuntarily repeating fragments of it to herself, until she came to the words: “ Other refuge have 1 none; Hang* my helpless soul on Thee. Leave, oh leave me not a10ne—- ....... still rapport and comfort me. All my trn*t on Thee la stayed; All my help from Thee I bring.” A strange feeling of peace and comfort stole into the heart of the child. “ God is here: He can help me,” was her thought; and instantly after, she recollected that in the wdod-shed connected with the kitchen was a great pile of pine-knots. The wind could not blow out the! flame of a pineknot, but would rather serve to fan it. So down the steep, wearisome stairs the poor child again went, and presently returned to the top of the tower with her arms fall of the pineknots. These she lighted and carefully disposed all around the little glass-cov-ered room—wherever she could find a place in which to stick her torches—so that the brilliant, ruddy glare might be visible in all directions. And there, alone in the dreary summit of the tall lighthouse, shivering in the cold wind and rain that beat upon her slight figure, stood poor little Nellie, listening to the storm, Btraining her eyes through the darkness, and trembling with anxiety and excitement as ahe thought of her father in the storm, and of poor Blister, dying in the room below, perhaps. But still through it All seemed to sound the sweet words of the hymn, “Jesus, lover of my soul.”

An hour passed, and poor Nellie, intently listening, thought that she heard sounds below, and then a faint echo of some one calling her name. Then came a strong hurried step on the stair, and in the red smoky glare of the pine torches she saw her falner standing. Oh, with sharp cry of relief and joy she sprang forward to meet him, though at ine very moment in which his arms were outstretched to receive her—overcome with cold, fatigue and anxiety—she tottered and fell almost insensible at his feet. Very tenderly, with tears in his eyes, the rough light-house keeper bore his little daughter below, and placed her in bed; and there, with a delicious consciousness of safety and rest, poor Nellie fell asleep. She never awoke until the bright sunlight of the next morning fell across her bed, when, opening her eyes, she saw Mammy Sylvie s kina, motherly face bending over ner, with tears streaming down her sable cheeks. “ Bress de Lord, dar aint anoder child in all de Car’llnas fit to hold a pine-knot to her,” said the affectionate creature, proudly. “ An’ I heerd Jem Long say, when his boat come in las’ night, aat es it hadn’t been for de light-house lamp, he an’ t’others would sartinly been lost.” “ And so should I,” said Mr. Lattie, fondly smoothing his little daughter’s hair, and then he told her how he had watched in vain for the light, and not seeing it had attempted to cross in the storm and darkness, when suddenly a red glare had shone out, and revealed to him that he was drifting fast upon one of the most dangerous of the reefs. From this ho had with difficulty extricated himself, and guided by the strange light had succeeded in reaching home in safety, and there had found old Brister as we have described, while Jack, worn out with rubbing and crying, lay asleep by the fire. Where was Nellie? and what could be the meaning of the red fitful glare in the light-house tower ? Almost sinking with fear and apprehension, the father had mounted the stairs, and there, at the first glimpse of his little daughter—pale and trembling, yet standing firmly at her post —he had read the whole story. And how proud he afterward was of his brave little girl, we can very well imagine. Aunt Bylvie had been prevented returning home by both the storm and the illness of the fisherman’s wife. Bhe had felt no anxiety about the children, believing that their father must have returned. The little family at the light-house live there still happy and contented. Nellie is a big girl now. Uncle Brister, who entirely recovered, is to this day very fond of telling this story to the people who sometimes in summer cross over to visit the light-house. “ Guess it’s de fust lighthouse was eber lighted up wid pineknots,” he says —Susan Archer Weiss, in St. Nicholas for July.

Summer Foods.

When the mercury stands at 90 deg. in the shade, the body requires but little fuel to keep the blood at its normal heat of 98 deg. Therefore, we eat less heatproducing food in summer than we do in winter. The wastes of nerve and muscular tissues must be preserved, so that the body’s strength may be kept; but care should be taken against overheating. A writer in the New York Tribune thus discourses to the housekeeper about the way to feed different members of the family: Suppose she has a half-dozen hungry farm laborers to feed, she will not give them chicken croquettes, tongue sandwiches and ice cream, for this would not feed them. She would rather place before them corned beef, well done, cabbage, onions, beans, potatoes, buttermilk and bread and butter. In the corned beef they would have for every hundred grains eaten, fifteen grains of nitrogen, which would go at once to repair muscular waste; in cabbage every hundred part would give them four parts of nitrogen; in onions they would have five parts of nitrogen in every hundred parts; in beans about the same, and in potatoes both nitrogen and potash, though in smaller proportions. The buttermilk, beside affording a cooling acid, is a refreshing beverage, since every constituent of milk but the fatty part is present in it. A piece of apple pie would fitly close the repast. But such a meal would not suit the braiu-worker; it is too hearty, and makes larger demands on the digestive organs than would be agreeable to him. For him the food should be at once lighter and more concentrated—a cupful of nutritious soup, a piece of juicy meat (fish, flesh or fowl), a baked potato, eggs, bread and butter, fruit, with some light dessert without pastry; this would permit him, after a short interval, to resume his work without heaviness. In the summer time fruits and vegetables naturally form a large part of our diet. When neither under-ripe nor overripe, nothing can be more wholesome than fruit. But there are no articles of food more deranging to the system than unripe fruit, or that verging on decay, in which the fermentations of decomposition have begun. So far as possible, fruit should be eaten without sugar. Bugar is carbon in a saccharine garb, and carbon is heat. Curds are very delightful and nutritious articles of food*. For breakfast on a sultry morning in June and July, nothing can exceed a cream cheese for delicacy and satisfaction. The habit once formed of eating cold dishes in summer, and the American idea that every meal must taste of the fire being discarded, large comfort ensues to the cook and the eater no less. Cold tea and cold coffee, if rightly made and cooled, are as refreshing and stimulating as the same beverages at 219 deg. Fahrenheit. Cold meats are as nutritious as warm meats, and many vegetables are as palatable when thev have been half a day from the fire as when first cooked. Salads of all kinds are specially grateful in warm weather, and should form a part of every dinner.

Devotees of Self.

Thebe are certain people who come into being with an understanding that the world was made for Csesar, and Csesar means themselves. They are detennined to have what they want m this life,' and usually carry out their determination at all hazards. They cannot conceive that any thing is of more importance than their wishes; and they become in time, if they are not from the first, such utter incarnations of selfishness that everybody and everything give way to them; their selfishness attains such proportions that it borrows of sublimity, and nobody dreams of gainsaying it. If they want a thing, they must have it, let who will go without it; if they are happy, nobody else must show a gloomy face; if they will play, let those work that dare; if they are sad, the world is turned topsy-turvy ; if they are sick, there is no health in us. Theirs is seldom, on the whole, a noisy selfishness; a very few storms in the be-

ginning do all the business, and there it little occasion for more. The child bangs its head a little about the floor when it is a couple of years old; and Its mother, disliking to see that banging repeated, takes care that there shall be nothing to induce it, A few years later, exasperated by some resistance, it perhaps fifes at its guardian like a wildcat, although storing short of blow or bite—and we have known the guardian thus intimidated to be the mother—showing itself capable of administering punishment, even if it fails to ad. minister further than the fright and horror and grief; and the exasperation is eeldom repeated. One or two subsequent outbursts, to show, possibly, that the na. ture remains the same, and the privileges are not to be tampered with; and thenceforth there is no more attempt to oppose the party, except it be in the case of lire or death, than there would be to take hold of the lightning-rod in a thunder-storm. One feels that there is always thunder in that sky, and ready to fall, although the sunshine when undisturbed is so completely sunshine, so warm and bright and pleasant, that one is willing to make almost any sacrifice that will keep the weather clear. For these selfish people are selfish because they want to be happy, and they are happier in the atmosphere of good nature and general content than in that of recrimination and gloom; and when they have the best chair, the most attention, the first chance at the newspaper, at the last novel, at the new fancy-work patterns, the back seat of the coach, the choice cut at table—the chief consideration every way, in short, and all the little accessories of pride and comfort that habit has declared theirs by right—then they are in the best of humors, and expect everybody else to be so likewise. There is always some excellent reason for the tyranny of these devotees of self. They ought to have the best chair; they have the lame back, or they get tired more easily, or their strength needs to be husbanded, or they are delicato anyway, or else they always have had it, and they are not comfortable in any other, while those who never have had it of course will not feel the difference. Then they should have the novel first; it doesn’t take them so long to read it; they mentioned it first, and wanted it most; they can’t bear to have it after everybody else has read it, and knows just what they are feeling at just this or that page, and nobody else cares about that, they expect it first, which nobody else does; they are the oldest, and have a right as such, or they are the youngest, and ought to be considered, and so on. They should have the choice cut at table: their appetite is the most fastidious ; they can’t eat everything the way some people can; that is the most nutritious, and it is well known that they need the most nutritious; nobody else*seems to care for it, and everybody knows they want it. Of course everybody knows they want it! They have taken precious good care of that. That want is a light they have not hidden under a bushel; it has been “ announced by all the trumpets of the sky.” They never eat any but the dark meat, whether there is dark meat enough to give the rest a tidbit of it or not; or they want the liver-wing, let who else will prefer it; the beef must be so underdone that the rest of the family must learn to like it or go without it, so tka they shall be pleased, or so overdone that for all the others it is “ done to death,’ 7 in order that they may not be vexed by seeing the blood run; certain dishes never can be had at all at the table where they sit, because the condiments, such as garlic, are disgusting to them, whether desirable to others or not; and certain vegetables must never be cooked in the house under any circumstances, because they cannot and will not endure their smell. *And for the rest—the back seat in the coach, for instance -why, it makes them sick to drive the other way, and that disturbs their whole day. What it it makes otkers sick ? They would stare with amazement at the idea; what is that them ? they cannot afford to be sick if it does. Evidently, if unconsciously, their business here is with number one, and not two, three, and four; while as to the little accessories of comfort and pride, they will tell you, if you presume to question, that they are things which nobody else thinks of; that they are not set apart for others, because others are not sensitive enough to appreciate and desire such refinements; and in the matter of receiving the most attention and the chief consideration, certainly that is not their fault if'people choose to pay it to them; others must make themselves agreeable, too. Tool A brief word, but it expresses a Seat portion of the gospel of life beived by these people. It. means that they are all they should be, that they have a right to all they get, and that others may have the surplusage, all that is left over, what they do not want themselves. It means that they are first, and others come afterward; that they acquire their right and their possession by much the same prescriptive virtue as that of the divine right of kings; they cannot say why it is, only that it is. Heaven gave the nature with these demands, Heaven obliges others to satisfy these demands. Perhaps all this does not do so much harm as at first appears to the rest of us—we others who are not the selfish ones, who have none of this sublime self-wor-ship, and make not one of these preposterous claims. For we, at any rate, who live under the spell, are in no danger of being like our tyrants, not only by reason of any dislike wad disgust we may feel, but through sheer impossibility of getting a chance to do likewise. It is a fact as universally to be observed as any of the material phenomena of nature, that a selfish mother make an unselfish daughter, while its reverse is very nearly as true; for if an unselfish mother does not always make a selfish daughter, it is because the beauty of unselfishness is contagious, and not because the daughter has not her chance of becoming selfish, and gratifying her own desires to tbe exclusion of others. The selfish mother, who exacts everything, leaves nothing for the child to exact till her torn comes, and by that time her habits of surrender are so entirely formed that ahe has forgotten herself, and strives only for the happiness of some one else—it used to be her mother, and now it is another. And in reality she is far the happier of the two, for the pleasure of pleasing one’s self can never last beyond the moment of the receipt of the pleasure, but the pleasure of pleasing others lasts for days and yean, and carries on its good work to be added to the good work of the eternities. — Harper's Bazar. —John Chinaman is very particular about paying all his debts on his New Year oay. Bo honest is he about it that he will even steal to get the money. One heathen arrested in Ban Francisco for that explained the thlng, and added that after that New Year all Chinamen were honest. —The newest, dressy trimming for the neck is a boa made of white lace studded with small flowers, such as violets, myosotis or lilac.

Youth’s Department. MILTIADEB CELEBRATES THE “GLORIOUS FOURTH." I.ittlk Militaries Pet.rklu Paul Had come back to the farm from the Centennial, With his little heart brimful of love, pure and true. For the glorious old colors, the red, white and blue: * And be tare, when tbe Fourth of July came around, A stauncher young patriot could nowhere be found. ' At least. It is certain that no one succeeded In making more noise and confusion than be did. He was out of Ms trundie-bed promptly at dawn. And was besting his drum ana was blowing his horn. Then, since this course entirely felled to arouse To a sense of its duty the rest of the house. He went marcMng about, crying loudlv, “ HI, hit Have you folks an forgotten 'tls Fourth of July? Why I what would George Washington think of yon all I" Exclaimed little Miltiades Peterkln Paul. After breakfast. Miltiades Peterkln Paul, In his soldier-list, epaulettes, plumes, spurs and all, Sallied forth to the barn-yard with triumphant shout. Wildly flinging torpedoes and crackers about. And the cattle, and fowls, and the pigs In the sty. Soon awoke to the fact that 'twas Fourth of July. Such a lowing and cackling aud squealing, be sure, Has never been heard either since or before. But, slssl young Miltiades Peterkln Paul Found these Joys, like some others, not lasting at all. • Long e'er noon his torpedoes and crackers were gone. And he even grew tired of blowing his horn. But at length, wand’ring round to the front porch, lot there Lay old Tabby, asleep in his grandmother's chair. “Ah! I have It!” he cried. ” I will blow up the cat! I reckon she'll very soon move out of that! “ There's a big horn of powder that Bangs In the hall" Continued Miltiades Peterkln Paul; “I've been told not to touch it; but as for that, why. Such rules ar'n't Intended for Fourth of Jnly. I'll just Bteji get it; and then, Mistress I'll show yon a trick that you’ll think rather shabby; Bat you cannot complain; yon deaerve a good scare, For going to sleep in my grandmother's chair.” . Then little Miltiades Peterkln Paul. Having taken the powder-horn down from the wall. Returned to the porch, and poured out quite a heap, Directly beneath where the cat was asleep. Then he carefully laid a long train from the chair. Straight across the piazza, around the house, where He could tonch off his “ mine,” yet remain out of sight And then, all being ready, he went for a light. But, alas, for his fond hopes 1 Our young engineer Had no sooner vanished, than who should appear At the front door, but grandma; who, seeing the cit. Sent her out or the chair with a vigorous “scat!” And then, never dreaming of any mishap. Straightway settled herself for a good quiet nap. And Tittle Miltiades Peterkln Paul, Coming back with his match, did not seo her at aIL “ B»—n —Jlzt — Jlzi — BanoI” Young Miltiades yelled Like a Modoc, and leaped forth—and 10l he bqheld, To his horror, his grandmother rise from the chair, And go up in a cloud of smoke into tbe air. At least, so it looked. Then in terror ho fled. And hid in the hay. And he monrafnlly said: ”0, dear met If she never should come down at all, Won't you catch It, MlltldSes Peterkln Pauli” —John Brownjohn, in Wide-Awake.

DIMPLE’S USEFULNESS.

Thump— bump—bang! No wonder the racket made grandma start nervously, and Aunt Patie rush to the stairs and call out: “What in the world has happened?” “ It’s noffin’ but only me. I’m dittin’ up!” piped a small voice in the chamber above. Evidently Dimple was getting up, and something else was getting down, for another clatter was heard and a stream of water began to tricßle down the stairs. “ It’s noffin’ but this big pitcher,’’called Dimple, appearing in his night-dress in the hall. “ I lust set it down some bard, you know; and it came to pieces. The table’s fell over, too.” “ Dimple Stacy! you do put me out of all patience,” cried Aunt Patie, as she ran up to mend the mischief which had been his waking work. “ I’ve a mind to tieyou in bed so you can’t get up until I’m ready to see to you.” “That would be defful!” said Dimple, slipping past her with his clothes on his arm, and hastening to tbe safety of grandma’s presence. She dressed him, gave him breakfast, then set bis sailor hat on his head and bade him go ont and play. “ Go out and pick up your chips, first thing,” said Aunt Patie. “ You are getting too big to be of no use.” “ I are useful,” said Dimple, earnestly. “ What would folks do without me?” Grandma kissed him, and he set off, swinging his basket, which held from six to a dozen chips, according to the way Dimple packed it. He has been known to fill it with three, by a careful selection of the largest, so you see his daily task of picking up four basketfuls was not very severe. When that was done Dimple peeped over into the cow-yard. “ Wish Annt Patie would let me help milk,” he said to himself. Old Brindle shook her horns, threateningly, for she had a little calf by her side, and aid not wish to encourage intruders in her family quiet. “ You needn’t shook your head at me,” said Dimple, bravely. “If you hooked Hie, grandma would make you sorry. Maybe I’d better feed the piggies.” Four little pigs looked up at the small figure which presently tugged at the side of the feeding-trough. It flew open at last with a jerk that sent Dimple tumbling on his back, gnd before he could picK himself up and go for the milk backet, one, two, three, four little pigs wriggled through tire convenient slide and ran granting and whisking curiy-taiis straight toward Aunt Patie’s flower-bed. under the window. .- “ Stop t stop!” called Dimple, earnestly. “ That wasn’t what I meant.” But little did the piggies care for that. Ont from the house came grandma, and out came Aunt Patie, filled with horror, away ran the pigs and away ran the people, guilty Dimple’s short legs making good speed, bnt powerless to remedy the mischief he had caused. Such a race as that was not quickly ended. Ido not know what woald have become of those {jigs at last, if Abner, the hired man, had-not come sp from the field and helped to catch them. Only the fourth and smallest pig ran—where do yon think? Into the kitchen, through the open door, and from there into the milk-room, where stood the churn just filled with yellow cream. “You can’t have that, sir,” cried Dimple, triumphantly, gruping the pig’s hind leg, and down in a heap went chum, piggy and child, with the cream over all. “But I’ve got. hold of him; he can’t get away from me!" said Dimple, as grandma rushed in and tried to pick up her darling, while piggy cried “wee! wee!” louder than the little pig in the song. “I’m out of all patience!” said Aunt

Patie, as she undreamed Dimple sad redressed him in dry and uncreamy garmeets. “ Ouch s child 1 never nv t” “ Why. I eauoht the oiarr ” said Dimple. “didn’t that helprorae? That wm ’most as useful as Aimer!” But tbe next day Aunt Patie !od Dimple to the red fchool-hotne down tbe lane, and he began to “go to school like big boys.”— Youth's Coimxinian. 1

Harry’s Manners.

Littls Habrt had come from his city home to make his summer visit at grandpa’*. “ Ain’t you got a big yard I”he exclaimed, as he stepped out upon grandpa’s green acres, beside the silvery river, the morning after his arrival, which had been after dark of the evening before. Now began bliasfnl days of out-door play and fan. Tbe child waa almost beside himself with delight. He conld scarcely spare time and breath to put “ ma’am” and “sir” after “yei" and “no,” as he had always been tanght to de. His mamma gave him many gentle reminders, but he was in each a hurry that he could not remember. One day he said, “ Mamma, I guess I’ve left nv manners at home. I’ll write to papa and ask him to send them to me.” So, ss the little fellow could not writs, his mother used the pen; and these are the words he gave her to put down: “Pear Para: Please send back my manners. I left my manner* in Troy. 1 want yon to search round the cellar, in the cloeet, and up-stalra In the led. and tee if yon can And them. Look In yonr hag and aee if yon brought them back to Troy, Good-bye, dear papa. Hanav.” Harry went away before the manners came. He said to his aunty, “Alter I’m gone you’ll get a letter, and inside of it will be a lot of‘yes, ma’ams,’ ‘yes, ma’ams,’ ‘no, ma r ama.’ ‘no,ma’ams.’ You must keep them till I come again.” I think Harry will bring his manners next time. He is a loving child, very thoughtfal and kind, only sometimes, when he is just about crazy with play, he forgets to be polite. Dear children, all, do be careful not to leave your manners behind you, wherever you go. But there is another thing still more important; be sure to use/our manners when you are at home. If you don’t use them every day, they will grow rusty and rough, like steel knives put away. Manners and knives must be used every day. It is not so bad to leave your manners behind when you go away on a visit, as it is to forget to use them when you are at home. You must be as polite to your papas and mammas as you would be to a king and Queen.— if. Y. Observer.

Louis Napoleon’s Courtship.

Mb. Blanchahd J krhold, in his volume just published in London, tells the conclusion of Louis Napoleon’s courtship. It was at the New Year ball in ’SB that as the company were passing to the sapperroom Mademoiselle de Monti jo and Madame Fortoul, wife of tne Minister of Public Instruction, reached one of the doors together. Madame Fortoul, mastered by that jealousy of that fortunate lady which was general at court, rudely rebuked Mademoiselle de Monti jo for attempting to take precedence of her. The Surg lady drew aside with great dignity ore this affront, and when she altered the supper-room the pallor and trouble in her face at once attracted the notice of the Emperor as she took her place at His Majesty’s table. In great anxiety he rose and passed behind her chair to ask what had happened. “What is ike matter? Pray tell me.” The marked and sympathetic attention of the Emperor drew all eyes upon the lady, who became covered with confusion. ** I implore you, Sire, to leave,” she answered; “everybody is looking at us.” Troubled and perplexed, the Emperor took the earliest opportunity of renewing his inquiry. “I insist upon knowing. What is it?” “It is this, sire,” the lady now answered haughtily, the blood mantling her cheek, “ I nave been insulted to-night, and I will not expose myself to a second insult.” “ To-morrow,” said the Emperor, in a low kind voice, “ nobody will dare to insult you again.” Returned home, Madame de Monti jo and her daughter, their Spanish blood thoroughly aroused, made hasty preparations to leave Paris for Italy. On the morrow morning, however, the mother received a letter from the Emperor, in which he formally asked the hand of Mademoiselle Eugenie de Monti jo in marriage; and tbe ladles within a few days removed from their apartments to the Elysee, which was assigned to the Emperor’s betrothed. Within a month Mademoiselle de Montijo sat on the throne of the Tuileries beside Napoleon HI.

Fun on the Farm.

The following Is from Hearts Rural New- Yorker: “We often hear the remark, ‘What a doll life farming most be!’ or ‘ Who would live in the country, where there are no opportunities for fun?’ Well, then, if you want to know what Koine fun is, just pitch in and help ik a pair of three-year-old steers. First, you catch a steer and tie him up by the head to a post in the barn-yard. Then you catch the other one, and pat a rope round his horns. Then yonr dad gets the yoke, and between you two and the hired man yon get it fastened cm their necks. Thai the old man tells you to untie the rope gently, while he and the hired man hold the critters. Just as you slip the knot, away go the steers with a bawl and bellow—or, rather, a pair of bellows—and there arises before your vision a confused mixture of boras, heels, tails, ropes, dad, hired mm and curses on your stupidity that reminds you of the picture of a volcanic eruption in the old geographies. And that’s only the beginning of the fan. By and by dad gets hold of one rope and the hired man gets hold of the other, and run races down the lane —the steers ‘ neck-and-neck,’ and the old mm performing the corse on the serpent. Then there is the time in haying, when dad undertakes to show yon how to mowover a bumblebee’s nest He ‘ain’t ’fraid o’ these bees, nor needn’t be—jest go right along—ihey never sting unless you fight ’em? and; then, * whish! get out o’ the way!’ and then dad’s swath comes to a sudden stop, and he departs for the house and hartshorn on a dean run, at the business end of a dozen yellow-legged bumblebees. Oh, no! there isn’t no fun on a farm.” - —The time of year will sow be at hand when you will buy a dollar’s worth of postage-stamps, fold than up and place them in your pocket-book, and when you need them, find the bunch glued together in such a shape that the entire mass would not cany an open circular to the next town. —Oil City Derrick. • - —An old toper’s lament: “Too manygood straws are wasted in straw hats this weather. They could be used for Irrl gating purposes every day;” and then he sinks to sleep on one of the benches in a shady comer of the park.—Erie Dispatch.