Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 30, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 20 January 1883 — Page 2

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THEMAIK

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE, JAN. 20, 1883

DIRGE AND ANTHEM.

Ob, the eyes that bare plead, unheeded Ob, the hands we have spurned, theugh needed!

Oh, the beauty that was to be! Oh, the songs that bare died In singing! Ob, the dirges that will keep ringing!

Ob, the words that we leave unsaid Ob, the hopes that were sever spoken! Oh, too hearts that are stuns and broken!

Ob, the sllenee of the dead! Ob, the deaf ones that we keep waiting! Ob, the trust that we pay with hating!

Oh, the weariness of years! Oh, the leaves that are brightest, dying! Oh, the winds that are always sighing!

Oh, the bitterness of tears! Ob, the future, grand and glorious! Ob, the life, o'er death victorious!

Ob, the boundlessness of bliss! Oh, the hands that we elasp forever! Oh, the love that no graves can sever!

Ob, wby should we morn for this?

From the Argonaunt.

"Who Was the Thirteenth Guest?"

A STRANGE STORY OF SUPERSTI TION.

BY JEROME A. HART.

"It is extremely annoying," said Vernon, looking at his watcn. "It is always disagreeable to a host to have a dinner delayed by one of the guests' tardiness, but in this instance it is particularly so." "Why?" I asked. "Because," he replied, "the number of guests is exactly fourteen, and if Sedley does not come we shall be obliged to sit at a table with tbat most ill-omened of numbers—thirteen." "But you surely do not believe in that old woman's superstition, do you?" cried Sinclair.

Hii remark jarred upon me. I am myself not of a superstitions way of thinking, but it does not follow from this that I have the right to'jeer at the superstitions of others. I would not knowingly wound the feelings of an African negro by making light of his fetich. But Sinclair is not of that turn of mind. A wit, a scoffer, a brilliant talker—I have noticed that these qualities may be frequently found associated -with an utter disregard for the feelings of others.

Vernon frowned. "Whether I believe in it or not," said he, "is not of so much importance as whether any of my guests do. I would not be willing that any man should sit at my table as one of thirteen if he thought it an ill omen. It -would spoil his dinner, if it would do nothing worse. But I have no hesitation la saying that I am affected by whatyou are pleased to call an old woman's superstition—I am, in fact, so powerfully affeotcd by it that I would not sit at table with thirteen for any consideration*' "Would nothing Induce you to asked SinclttiiY'With what 1 considered ill-timed banter. "Nothing," Bald Vernon, firmly and somewhat heated at the tone and smile of Sinclair, he added: "I feel so strongly on this matter that I would rather the devil himself should fill a seat at the table than to sit down to it with tbirto8Q«" "Aha!" cried Sinclair, "the devil is invited, but will his plutonic majesty come?"

While the tones of his voice were still vibrating, the bell rung. A moment after the servant announced: "Mr. Sedley," "Ah," said Vernon, much relieved, "here he is at last. How are you, Sedley You are doubly welcome, for just before you came we were speculating as to whether your absence would make it necessary for us to sit down with thirteen at table." "I was detained," said Sedly, briefly, "I ask your pardon."

There was something odd about his tone. I noticed it, and saw that Vernon did so too. But he repliod: "Don't mention it, old fellow. It's an accident which may happen to all of us."

But as I grasped Sedly's hand I met Vernon's eye. 1 don't know whether it was that or Sodley's hand which startled mo. But if Vortion's look was peculiar, Sedley's hand-grasp was oven more so. It was clammy, snake-like—ugh! I cau remember it still.

Wo repaired to the table, and it was my lot to sit opposite to Sedly. Beside mo sat Sinclair. But although he seemed in unusual spirits, and was more brilliant eveu than wis his wont, the conversation (lagged. There seemed to be some spell upon us, for all the guests were good fellows, and, as a rule, at din-ner-parties whore there are no ladies tho merriment is apt to bo unchecked.

Yet so it was. As for myself, whenovor I attempted any sally, I would catch the eye of Sedley, and it invariably exercised an unpleasant effect upon me. I oould not divine the cause. Ordinarily, Sedlev was as jolly a fellow as you would find in a day's ride, but to-night —well, I couldn't understand it. I gave it up, and devoted myself to my dinner.

As if to complete the ill-fortune of the oveningj the conversation persistently rolled ou thirteen. The various superstitious connected with that number were 'discussed, and they were many. It seemed, from the amouut of curious lore brought forth by this discussion, that the evil properties of the number are by no meansjeonfined to the table. "It is said of the Turks." remarked .Sinclair, as he sipped a glass of sherry, "it is said of the Turks that they consider the number thirteen so unlncky that they have almost expunged it from their vocabulary. Theyfsubstitute for it the word

siyadeh,

which is a sort of in

vocation, like that used by the Italians against the evil eye." "So it seems, hen," remarked Vernon "that the prejudice against thirteen is not confiued to the number of guests?" "By no means. Yet that superstition is a wide-spread one. As every one knows, its origin is generally attributed the Last Supper, at which there were thirteen—Christ and the twelve apostles and from which Judas, with the Saviour's accusing words still ringing in his ears, nont forth to deliver up his master to death. Bat the superstition is in reality much older. In the ancient Norse mythology, when the gods sat down to feast with Loki ia the Walhalla. Baldur was the thirteenth at the board, and Baldur bad to die. The same fallacy holds, I believe in the volar superstition of today those who believe that it ia unlucky to sit with thirteen at table, also believe that tho last man to mat himself will die before the is out,"

Sedly 'u I his bead and fixed his eye cn Sinclair. Really, I had never noticed what extremely unpleasant eyea Sedley bad. They were caveri as, piercing,

bolide

mmrn

green eyes, and thaffT tra a sinister gleam about them tKat night which actually made me uncomfortable. But apparently not so Sinclair. "The vulgar superstition, yon say began Sedley. It was the first time he had spoken, and involuntarily a hash came over the table. "The vulgar superstition, you say Do you not believe in it, then T" "Believe in it? No sneered Sinclair. "It is an pld wives' tale. It is fitonly for the consideration of fools, children, and old women." "Ah," replied Sedley, dryly. He lifted a glass of wine as he spoke—I remember that it was a green glass, and held Chateau Yquem—and as he aid so, the light fell through the green glass and the amber wine, and stained his faee a hideous yellowish green. He smiled sardonically as he spoke, and what with his gruesome eyes and the strange tinge of nis face, he looked positively demoniac. I can see him now—I can conjure him up out of the mists of my memory as if it were but yesterday. "I consider the whole belief puerile beyond description," went on Sinclair, who was becoming somewhat heated with wine. "True, there may be something in the'belief that one out of every thirteen assembled at a table will die before the year is out, for it is extemely probable that out of every group of thirteen one will die before a period of such length passes. But that is merely the result of fixed laws. It has nothing to do with the table. I might say with as much reason that I would not sit down at a table with twelve people, for the reason that the laws of statistics tell me that one of us will surely die before eleven months expire." "You think, then, that it is pure chance asked Sedley, fixing his suken eyes on Sinclair's face, "Entirely so. It is truetbat the number thirteen has come to have various evil associations connected with it, as I have already said. But then this is merely owing to vulgar traditions. The Romans, for example, looked on thirteen as an unlucky number. This may have had its effect on the common people of our day, eveh after the lapse or ages. The Italians of to-day,who may be looked upon as descendants in right line of the Romans, have the same belief. Tbey push it to such an extent that they will never use this number in making up their

for the lotteries which im

poverish them. The thirteenth card, too, used by them in playing the game called (aroccki, bears a figure which their fervid imaginations have succeeded in likening to that of Death." "To Death Indeed interrupted Sedly. There was nothing in his words to irritate Sinclair, yet he seemed to grow angry. "Yes, 1 said Death, sir," he retorfed, warmly. "I mean the figure conventionally accepted as that of Death.

Ah, yes—you interest me—pray go on," replied Sedley, this time with a semi-sneer.

Sinclair felt himself being forced into the position of one who was exhibiting his knowledge throagh pedantry, but he was so nettled that he continued: •As I was saying the beliefjlis a widespread one. The Russians possess it as well as the Italians. I remember reading somewhere that at a dinner once at Count Orloff's an English nobleman who was present^ noticed that Orloff would not sit at,the table, but paced the constantly, He asked the host n, and Orloff said: 'Do you not bat there are twelve at table? Were I to sit down Nerishkin would instantly leave the room. And to tell the truth,' he added, with a frank laugh,'I am net anxious to defy the fates myself.' "Orloff was a man of the world," remarked I sententiously.

I grant you," said Sinclair, turning suddenly upon me, "but a superstitious one. There are many such. Tom Moore relates how, when he was once dining with Catalini, some guest failed to make his appearance, and a poverty-stricken French countess, companion to some great lady, was immediately sent upstairs. When the tardy guest appeared, however, she was at once sent for again to make up fourteen. Now, all this seems to the height of follj,and unworthy the belief of sensible men. It is fitted only for the common people—particularly that part of the superstition which declares that the thirteenth man shall die."

By the waV." said Vernon, looking around the table with an attempt at pleasantry," who was the thirteenth man to sit to-night

Ay," added Sedley, in a tone which deprived the remark of all pleasantry, who was the thirteenth man

We all looked around the table, and, as if by one accord, fixed our eyes on Sinclair. "You were the thirteenth man, I believe, Sinclair," said I.

Yes, yes, it was Sinclair," came from every hand. Really, we were looking at him with a solemuity which was as absurd as it was amusing. Sinclair felt it, and endeavored to remove the uneasy feeling which lay upon us by some witticism, but the jest fell flat. Its effect was not added to, either, by Sedley, who looked at him fixedly for some moments, and then said, pointedly

So you were the thirteenth man to sit." Yes and what of it retorted Sinclair, rudely. He was losing command of himself. "What does it matter to you "To me—not at all. To you—perhaps much," was the strange reply of Sedley.

After this remark there was'«othing to be said. The gayety—if there were any—was hopelessly ?one, and after a gloomy cup oi coffee and a funereal cigar the party rose. But instead of repairing to the smoking-room with therost of us, .Sedley declared that he must go. "Why are you in such a hurry asked Vernon, hospitably. "I have something to attend to which can not wait," be replied. "I beg you to excuse me. You know I would not leave the gatheriug were it not compulsory. But I must leave you. I am waited for." And as he pressed Vernon's hand, I saw, by the peculiar expression of the host's face, that he had noticed the same odd feeling in Sedley's hand that had struck me.

Sedley turned to Sinclair. "Good-night, sir." he said. "I hope you may come to nave more toleration for the superstitions of others. Goodnight. We shall never meet again." And as he took Sinclair's hand in his, I saw that the same strange feeling which had struck Vernon and myself was pervading him. "Confound the fellow!" cried Sinclair, when the door was closed behind the gloomy guest. ''He's a nice one to have at a convivial gathering. He reminds me of tiiose cheerful Trappists, one of whose customs is to have a friar at every meal, whose duty it is to say at intervals 'Brothers, we mast all die.* Good-bye and good riddance. May the devil go with mm!"

The words clung to me—"Mav the devil go with him!" The devil"? A strange farewell, truly to a departing guest. i'yj* rt'Jd

Six months had passed since the even

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.'

ing* of the disagreeable dinner I have described. Family affairs had called me from the city the very day after it took place, and they had been of such nature as to keep me away a much longer time than I had anticipated. I had heard nothing, or next to nothing, from home since my departure. One of the very first things that teaches a man how little his friends care for him, is their utter indifference to him the moment his back is turned. And he will find, as a rule, that those who are the most kindly and considerate in the matter of corresponding are generally the busiest men. Your true idler never finds time to write. "Well, as I said, I had been away fora long time, and knew nothing of what had been taking place since my departure. One of the brst men I happened to meet on my return was Vernon, and I besought him to tell me the news. "News?"said he, "news? I know of nothing. It seems to me that you are the one to tell the news—yoti who come from the outside world. We here have been leading our every-day humdrum existence, with nothing to chronicle and nothing to tell." "Nothingto tell!" I exclaimed. "That is always the cry of him who stays at home. He does not realize that everything is of interest to the wanderer— everything—scandal, births, marriages, and deaths." "Deaths—ay," said he, thoughtfully "You speak of deaths. Of course, you know that Sinclair is dead "Sinclair dead cried I. "You amaze me. "Why, he was a young and vigorous man, and the last time I saw nim he was in the most robust ot health. Of what did he die "The doctors called it pneumonia," replied Vernon, with a short cough. "Poeumonia—well, well. They say it is the bane of American civilization that our heated rooms, carelessness in exposure, and ways of living encourage it. Yet true it is that our grandfathers scarcely knew of it. So Sinclair is dead. Poor fellow! Wh/, it seem but yesterday I saw him in the heyday of manhood. Let me see—when was it that I saw Sinclair last? Why, it was at that dinner you gave, the day before I went away." "Yes," assented Vernon, "it i^as an unfortunate dinner. I shall never forget it. Of course you know that Sedley is dead "Sedley, too I cried, more shocked than I cared to show. "No, I knew nothing of it. What was the matter with him? When did he die "Wby he died the day after you left the city—the day after the dinner, you know. Or the night before," added Vernon gloomily. "I'm sure I don't know. There was some talk concerning it. It was very extraordinary." "But tell me about it," I said, "I am entirely in the dark. I know of nothing that has taken place since my departure." "Well," said Vernon, uneasily, "I'm sure I don't like to talk of it, for it* a very strange affair. If a man discusses it seriously he feels cursed silly, and if he doesn't discuss it seriously he feels cursed queer. You remember- the din* ner, of course?" "I remember it very well."' "Well, you remember the strange mauner of Sedley, his late arrival, his atered demeanor, and his clammy bands. "Damme, if I can't feel the corpse-like clutch of his hand on mine yet/' And Vernon inspected his hand uneasily, as if he expected to see marks upon it. "Yes—goon." "You know, too, that he and Jack Sinclair had some wordy sparring, in which Jack didn't come off first best, as he generally did. "I don't know as Sedley said ft in so many words, but he certainly left the impression on most of our minds that Jack was going to die before the year was out." "I remember." "The party broke up in short order after his departure, and all went home feeling rather blue. You can perhaps imagine our feelings when we heard next dsy that Sedley was dead." "Sedley dead? Bat how—why" "Well. I suppose it was apoplexy— that's what the doctors called it. He was a bachelor, you know, and lived alone, with the exception of his servant. The man never stayed •up for him when his master went out, but got things in readiness for his going to bed, ana then went to bed himself. The morning after the dinner Sedley was found lying on the floor, dressed as if for dinner, and stone dead. He had been dead for hours —the corpse was cold."

I looked at Vernon curiouslv. "You say dressed as if for dinner. "Sou mean dressed as if he bad been at dinner."

Vernon rubbed his nose hesitantly. •Well, I don't know,''he said, reflectively, "I suppose so. At all events he was in his dinner-dress. And he was dead."

I looked a him keenly. "You haven't told me all, Vernon,"! said. "That's all there is to tell," said he. "Unless it be for an absurd notion that poor Jack Sinclair got in his head." "And what was that?" "Well, of course Jack was sick, and sick men are not responsible for the hallucinations which afflicted them. But the notion Jack got was this. You see he remembered some foolish speech that I had made before the dinner in regard to beiug willing to have the devil himself make up the fourteen rather than sit at table with thirteen." "Yes, I remember it." "Most of those who were there remember it," said Vernon meditatively. "I wish their memories were not so good. Well, Jack took it into his head—but it's too absurd an idea to even think of seriousness." "Let me hear it none the less." "Before Jack died he said to me 'Vernon, old bov, I'm afraid ycur wish came true.' 'Wliat wish said I. 'You wished that the devil might come to your table rather than thirteen should sit there. 'Vernon, the devil came.'

Nonsense, Jack, said I' 'you're out of

non, I tell you that Sedly died that night before* and not aftor dinner, and the fourteenth guest who sat there was the devil. I was the thirteente, Vernon. And that's what's killing me.' 'Pooh said I, thinking to humor him, 'you're net going to die. Besides that nonsense about the thirteenth man don't apply to you anyway, for there were fourteen of us.' 'Fourteen guests—yes,'said be with a Sickly smile, "but only thirteen men. Vernon, it was the devil I was disputing with, and he's got me.' I saw it was useless to attempt to cure him of his delusion, and so I left him. And that was the last time I saw Jack Sinclair alive." "Butdo you believe, Vernon," I asked him, "do you believe it was tbed evil "Was it the devil be replied, testily. "How tbedevil should I know?"

Aye, truly—how the devil aboald be?

O'DONOVAN ROSSA'S OPINION.

New York Graphic.

•'Donovan Rossa, speaking of the Great German Remedyto a friend, raid: -stuck in the sconces along tbesidea. "Mrs. Rossa has been cured of a very severe attack of neuralgia by St. Jacobs sight. Oil,asebe will gladlytell you, if you call the gala. Mrs. Jones and Barbara bad

Bush wick

at my residence, Brooklyn

N. Y."

WILLIE'S FIRST POCKETL

Five happy years hsve passed swiftly away: Willie has got his flist pocket to-day:. .. Ha! Ha! mm

Ob, bow my baby is slipping from me! What a big man will my darling soon be Next year a vest and suspenders we'll see:

Ho! Ho!

Proud, Veiy proud of his pocket is be Bee, he has stuffed it as full as oan be irtB

Ha! Hal

The Red Ear.

It was October when I came to the Sumac farm—red, rare October, with the maple trees all dyed in scarlet,the woodland streams choked with dead leaves and the nuts ripening on the chestnut boughs, and I can well remember the thrill that went through all my veins at the sight of the glorious landscape as the stage driver set me down on the doorstep with my trunk and carpet bag just as the sunset, bursting thiough a shield of lowering clouds, blazed across the old house, painting its eaves with orange light and turning the small window panes to quivering tables of gold.

For I had been Dorn and brought up in thecity,and all this wide, scape, colored with autumn forests and scented with dead leaves, was new and marvelous in my sight. "Do you like it, Cousin Olga?''

Coquettish Barbara Blake asked this question as she flitted to and fro, apparently intent upon the arrangement of the supper table, while all the time she kepta bright eye on Walter Mildmay, who sat by the light msnding a defective spot in the harness. "Very much," I said quie'.ly.

Walter did not look up, but I could feel his quiet eye on me all the time. I wondered what he thought vf me. I thought uneasily of my dusty dre's, my dishevelled hair, the stiff, unbecoming linen collar which I had chosen to wear, instead of the frill which best suited my face. Not that I wanted him to admire me, but every woman likes to appear to the best advantage, and I was no whit different from the rest of my sex.

I was a Philadelphia shop-girl. There was no glamor of romance about my life. I worked for my living, like many another, lived quietly in scant and forlorn lodgings, and felt, sadly enough, that my life was to be that of a chrysalis rather than of a butterfly—until Fayal A Co. failed, and, hearing that I was out of employment, my unknown cousin of Sumac farm wrote "me to come and spend the winter with them. They welcomed me kindly, after their fashion. Uncle Blake gave me a kiss, and remarked dubiously that I "didn't favor any of the Blakes that ever he knew of." Barbara, his daughter, wondered why I looked so pale. Jonas brought his pretty young wife—who had Men a Mildmay—to greet me, and her brother Walter, who was boarding there, also shook hands politely with me and "hoped I should like the country,"in an indifferent way.

The fire of huge logs blazed and cracked in Jthe deep, smoke-blackened chimney-place,the leaves rustled against the doorstep outside, a cricket chirped Bhrilly under the hearth, and it was all so strange yet so restful.

After supper they left me alone. Mrs. Jonas Blake went out to skim the milk. My cousin and bis father went to attend a district school meeting somewhere. Walter and Barbara had been invisible for some time, and, after sitting dreamily for awhile before the fire, I rose and went out into the kitchen beyond, vaguely desirous of some companionship besides my own.

No ohe was there, but I heard the sound of voices in the shed as the rear, where Barbara was holding the light for Mildmay to sharpen some edged tool on the grindstone. Unwittingly I advanced

toward the door just in time %o hear their words. "A stiif, ugly old maid." said Walter, indifferently. "A little higher, Barbara, please. If thstis the sort of girls they turn out in Philadelphia, I prefer the country specimens."

I stood rooted to the floor, feeling myself grow hot all over. They went on talking and laughing, but I did net hear a word they sail

Noiselessly I crept back into the house and up to my room, lighted the candle and looked into the muslin-draped glass that bung over the home-madedressing-table.

Stiff, ugly and an old maid The latter I certainly was not, at four-and-twenty. Stiff, I might be—who could avoid that, in the presence of utter strangers, surrounded by domestio atmosphere that was entirely novel to me? And ugly—was I that I looked into the glass, to see hair braided straight back from a pale, oval face, eyes heavy with weariness, cheeks quite colorless. Did he think I always looked like that He should see.

So I went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The next morning I got up and dressed myself with care. I brushed the soft, crimped masses of jet black hair away from my temples, and fastened a spray of coral red berries, which I bad gathered by the road side, into it, and knotting my loose scarlet silk necktie under my lice collar, I smiled to see the soft glow of color tbat was returning to my cheeks and the brilliancy of my eyes

My dress was of black cashmere, en livened here and there with a bow of scarlet ribbon, instead of the gray traveling suit I had worn the evening before, and it fitted me as though I had grown in it. "I don't think I am quite so ugly as I was last night. But if Mr. Mildmay den't like me, of course I can't help it.

So I went down stairs. Uncle Blake stared at me over his spectacles. "Mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Jonas, "what has the girl been doing to herself?" "Some one must have changed her off while she slept!" said Barbara, running up to me ana giving rae kiss.

Walter Mildmay said nothing, he only drank his coffee. How I enjoyed the next fortnight! The weather was beautiful and balmy beyond all description. We bad nutting expeditions and boating parties and long walks to gather brilliant autumn leaves. At night we sat around the blazing logs, and on the few rainy days Mrs. Jonas showed me bow to make batter, and Barbara took me up into the great garret, where there were chests of old relics, piles of books and papers, and all the antique belongings of a whole century of Blakes.

But ail this time Walter Mildmay kept his quiet distance, and to save my life I could not tell whether he thought me "a stiff old maid" or not.

And then came the busking frolic. The barn was illuminated by candle*

had never seen so wild and romantic a The neighborhood gathered to

are.. been baking cakes and buttering sandwiches all day, while Uncle Blake had

rolled a barrel of sparklin the barn door. Merry,laue bright facea were glanced' the Rembrandtesque of while ever and anon the flute and the fiddle tuning plainly audible.

I had been helping Mrs.1 the iceing on the big frui held the ring, and it was^l came into the big, sweet-: with my black bows and deep scarlet autumn lea "Here's Olga!" cried my

-t

Now towards his mother he turns his brown eyes, And though like a melon i£ looks from its sise, "My poeket alnt big enough, ma!" he cries,

I looked at him in astoni "I don't understand you," 111 to say.

Whatever my jftst impression

may have been, I think veiy differently, now. My dear Olga, may say all tbat is in my heart?" "I think we had better go back to the barn, now," said I, quietly. "And 1 think We badf better not," pleaded Walter, gently restraining mo, "Listen, Olga. the most wretched criminal that 8t *.ri|ls at tbe bar is enti tied to insist upon jit hearing in his own less favbred

Shall 1 than

defense. he?' "Well," I hesitated, "If vou really have anything toe ty—»

When we came I ack into the barn the husking was over, the debris was cleared away, and they dancing to the rudo music of the/iam -"Klllarney," I believe, was the a|r. My cheeks were burning, my eyes danced to the wile

shone, my heart also ewaying music.

Mrs. Jonas look keenly at me tt i. tt __ i.i :iv .. Ah," she said, be. You are—en for your sake and "And so am I,'

I thought it would df I am so glad, alter's, too." aald, quietly.

"I am a farmer' Wife

BOW,

a little brown cot And, fancifully over tbe parlor corn—a red ear.

vTt

onas,

sit hy me, and I'll give yo^|0®%f*

I looked up at cousin Jons** derment. "What is the red ear?" said

Cousin Jonas laughed. "What a little greenhorn* "The red ear is -t

husk." -r JL

I laughed, and nestled 4®*®. hay close at his side and moment a storm of merry on the air. "The red ear! The red earl" in chorus, clapping their cheering vehemently. has got the red ear!"

Just then Walter Mildly stood before me, the red "r" ear of corn in his hand. JI0 foot* "I claim my privilege, Of**-" *ie

naged

The next moment he h*d«to©| me, and, putting his hands my shoulders, had imprigtsda my astonished lips.

I sprang up' feeling na let, and rubbed my lips with my handkerchief aflfif to the insult. "How dare you?" I never forgive you in the worli never!"

over

ly on upon

scar-

nately pe off

h, I'll never,

And then, half maddened by poisy laughter of the crowd, tbl din of jubilant voices, I tore mysdjf fro®- Jonas Blake's detaining hand and flBf out into the starry cold of the o^ter air. Mrs. Jonas followed me. I "Olga, what is tho ipatter? Come back, child," she cried. 1 "He has insulted mei'SI sobwd* "Insulted you? Oh, What nonsense, Olga," said Mrs. Jonas, pQttinglwranns around my neck. "Ho h|Spwayou the highest compliment a a|»n could pay a woman. There's not rfH in thebarn to-night but that enfies yoiii #»ld.

the

Don't you knowT wh means?" "No," said I, lookingnpwithAvonderiag eyes.

She laughed. ... "It means that the lu iy fiwfcr thereof is entitled to kiss tt prewwst girl in the room," said she. pit bM been his privilege from time imfMW0i|P, and in this case it means thit Wslflr Milday thinks Olga Blake is tbe prettiest girl in all that caowd of rullUcMsities." "Olga, you are not ^aslly algry with me?"

It was Walter's voicedosetome. Mrs. Jonas made some excltnationabout the cake she promised to cat, and slipped away into the darkness, leaving us slone. "Angry!" I repeated. '"Yss, I was augry. I don't know -no one had told me "About our rustic nasge? I But you will forgive me, 01fi,a'

My presence of min I Was slowly coming back to me* I dr If my hand from his. "But you didn't sei ously think me— pretty?" he asked. "Do you want me say what I seriously did think?" he iked. "Yes," said I, lauj ling. "The truth now, the whole truth jand nothing but the truth." "Then," said he, thought you were the sweetest, prettim, most actually perfect creature thaij Providence ever made?" "Not at all," I replied, demurely. "I am a stiff, ugly old maid. And if this is the sort of girls thef,tnrn out in Philadelphia, you prefer l|e country specimens." f-

I could see thecolof ioodhis face, even ill the starlight. "Olga, didyou he#that?" he asked. "I did hear it, WaJter.^Iresponded. "I was a fool—a rash, {(discreet fool!" he said.

CATARRH

«r

and live in

bidding diseasefto make its greater inroads upon ram, by saying: "Hunt's Remedy is out oitbemarket." But the Trojans fonnd ?to their cost, that tbe mighty AchilletfauBe^,

their greatest «hanpious, and made short work of tpe '^nd Hunt's Remedy, as an Jtddlies against kidney Mid liver diseaag, taken tbe field, and is making Hug*

ONLY WW(TBOTTLE8.

Messrs. John Holloway & Co., wholesaledrugflatB# Philadelphia, Pa report tbat son banded them •end a good ca -fleers in Arizo gentlemen tol cers and the mont, Gov. of of catarrh by CREAM BALM

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-A

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FOR PAIN.

RelieTM and cures

RHEUMATISM, Neuralgia, Sciatica, Lumbago,

BACKACBUS, niDlCIB, TOOTIiCU, SORE THROAT,

QUINSY, SWKLUNQS,

•PBAIKS, Sortcen, Cats, Braises, FROSTBITES. BURKS, SCALDS, And all other bodilj ictu and ptia*. rmi CISTS 1 BOTTLL 80M by all Drof(Uti aad Dealer*. Dirtotiaaa la tancnafta. Tfc* Chulit A.7ofpi«r

Co.

(Bioe—on A. To««ler 4 V)

BALTLMM, C. SL A.

The Bad and Worthless

are never imitated or counterfeited. This is especially true of a family medicine. and it is positive prool that the remedt imitated is of the highest value. As 5 soon as it had been tested and proved by the whole world that Hop Bitters was the purest, best and most valuable family medicine on earth, many imitations sprung up and began to steal the notices in which the press and people of the country had expressed the merits of H. B., and in every way trying to induce suffering invalids to use their stuff instead expecting to make money on the credit and good name of H. B. Many others started nostrums put up in similar style of H. B., with variously devised names in which the word "Hop" or "Hops'' were used in a way to induce people to believe they were the smne a" Hop Bitters. All such pretended reir dies or ciues, no matter what their sty1, or name is, and especially tbose with tu word "Hop" or "Hops" in their nami or in any wey connected with thorn 01 their name, are imitations or counterfeits. Beware of them. Touch none of them. Use nothing but genuine Hop Bitters, with a buncb or cluster of ^reen Hops on the white label. Trust nothing else. Druggists and dealers are warned against dealing in limtutions or counterfeits-

Grean Itolni,

FOR

Catarrh ami Hay Fever. Agreeable to Use.

UNKQULLKO FOR

COLD In HKAT) Headacho and Deafuoss. or any kind of mucous monibninal irritation, inflamed and rough surfaces. A pr*paratlon of viri doubted merit. Apply by tho lit-

|_a A V-E?Ct#Em He Anger into the tfC nostrils. It will bf absorbed, effectually cleaning the nasal passages of catarrhal virus, causing healthy secretions. It allays inflaination. protqgt* the membrannl linings of the head rrom additional cold, completely heals the sores and restores the sense of taste and smell. Bene flclal results are realized by a few appUca-

thorough Treatment will Curp: Cream Balm lias gained an enviab'e re u\ tation wherever known displacing allot lie preparations. Send for circulars containing! full information and reliable testimonials'! By mail, prepaid,SOc. a package—stamps re eelved. Hold by all wholesale and retn druggists. ELY'S CREAM BALM C).

Owego, N.

THE SUN.

NEW YORK, 1888.

More people have read The Sun duriug year just now passing than ever before it was first printed. No other newspnp published on this side of the earth has b« bought and read in any year by so many and women.

We are credibly informed that people bi. read, and like The Sun for the followto reasons, among others:

Because Its news columns presents In .« tractive form and with the greatest possiti acenrncv whatever has interest for liumn kind tfie event*, the deetlH and minuet-' the wisdom, the philosophy, the notai follv, thesolid sense, the improvingnonsei —all tho news of the busiest world at pre* revolving in spnee.

Because people have learned that tn it-^ marks concerning persons and affairs Sun makes a practice of telling tliein the act truth of the best of its ability three In dred and sixty-flvc clays in the year, Uer election as well »s after, about tho walo well as about the small fish, in the fac dissent as plainly and fearlsssly as when *u ported by general approval. The Htm habsolutely no purposes to serve, save the n| formation of lis readars and the furtherst of the common good.

Because It is everybody's newspaper man Is so humble that The Sun is indilkrto his welfare and his rights. No man

rich that it can allow injustice

WBecause

War Sumac farm I Wfth blue ribbon, lei, bangs an ear of

And Walter sa

years,

as long as both

of us live we shafllu^l yearly husking frolic in tbe new Sum feare building.

MAKING SftpSrWoRK

IT.

In the siege ofTroyi Apollo encoursged tbe Trojani to be valiant against the Greeks, byfaayini: "The mighty Achilles does iot fight to-day. It would seem

if Death bad been

tbat

the

field, slew

worjt

ailments. Hufdiedji

all such

testmonials

from all quartei »«r»eoming in as to the might of this cl

medicine.

Not

surer was tbe rorfof Achilles than is this powerful, it Maceful, remedy in battle form, si ft Ivages war against dropsy, urinary knd kidney complaints, and overcomes. Its to call in its aid

ago a gentleman with a request to re to two army ofotly the same tbat both the offiGea. John C. Fre^a, bad been cured two bottle* of Ely

UPAIBA.

rWseaaes.

it-

be d(

him. No man, no association of men, powerful enough to be exempt from thcsUI! applications of its principles of right ail

in politics it has fought for a dc»|

without intermishlon and sometlmj almost alone among newspapers, tn«i n«| that has resulted In the popular verdict against Kobesonlsnj and nriripHt ffovrrnmcrit. No matter whfit is in power, TheSmi stands and willcontiiij to stand like a rock for the Interest of people against the ambition of botws, the 0 couragements of monopolist*, and the hon«d schemes of pub ic robbers.

All this is what we are told alnvrst da»| hv our friends. One man holds that TJ Sun is the best reliiriou* newspaper ever pi Hshed, because its Christianity "ndilu with cant. Another holds that it is tne «T Republican newspaper printed, becaimi ha- already wh!pi*d hal/ of thera*calH of

party, and is proceeding against

other half with undiminished vigor. A thl believes It to be the bestlmagazlne of gene] literature in existence, because its reads ml«s nothing worthy of notice that Is curre the world of thought. So every friend The Sun discovers one of it* many appeal* with particular force to his ladtrk al liking.

VOCE

already khow The Sun, you will

serve tuat in 1*SJ It is a little better than e*J before. If you do dot already know The SiJ you will find It to be a mirror of ^nil bar"! activity, a Morchoiwe of the cbocie#t ducts of common sense and lmaglnaWot

main

tay for the cause of honest govcj ment, a sentinel for Ken"1"®. Jeflersonr Demcracy .a scourge for wickedaesso ev. Kpeclcs, and an uncommonly good invf ment for tbe coming year.

Term* to Hall »obs«rlfcerw. The several editions of THE SUM

cultural

.IRES

by mail, postpaid, as follows: DAILY—55 cents a month, ••.50 a with Sunday edition, 97.TO. SUNDAY-Eight pages, 81.20 a year. WEEKLY—•! a year. Eight page* ot best matter of the dally issues an AgrJ

Department of unequalled merl

market reports, and literary, scientific, domestic intelligence make THit WKEKIJanj Htr* the newspaper for the farmers hoi bold. To clubs of ten with $10, an A.Wress"*' J. W. ENGLAND, Publisher. Adores*

a week in your own town. Terms an ontfit free. Addrem H. Hallett & CoJ Portland, Maine.,