St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 16, Number 51, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 4 July 1891 — Page 6

the mystic angel., sleep. BI GEORE W. FEIUUSI,. Out of what dreamy land, Orieague of sea or shadow, Or lakes where lilies stand, Or over snows and meadow. Cometh the tender angel. Sleep, To those that either laugh or weep? in all the long years fled Beyond the phantom river. No saint nor seer hath said: “I saw his pinions quiver, And heard across the silent nigh® His coming or hie mystic flight. Swift from some meadow bed Os poppies, white ns laces, Or from the days long dead Amid the vanished faces, May be ho mounts the dusky skv Where clouds of fading scarlet lie. But all we ever know, When once his sjtell hath bound ua, And sleeping soft and low. The world is lost around us, Comes in the rosy tide of dreamr As sweet as lilies over streams. For, when the morning gates Swing back in silver glory. This angel never waits To hear our drowsy story, Whether the morrow comes again In splendid rapture or in pain. Fnongh to us that ho From poupy bed or meadow,' Or from some league of sea. Hath broughrthrough dusk and shadow That sweetest gift to those that weep Or laugh—the blessed balm of sleep. Tumbling in the Circus.

' WAS in n difficult poition. An incursion by six charming gir’s into the house of a grumpy old Michigan dialer cou d hardly be thought tn increase ) Lisle icity. They were c usins from Ann Arbor; six

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* bright girls, clever, high-spirited, and altogether a novelty in the residence of a confirmed old bachelor. Walking down the street in t orplexity, I found myself facing a huge, variegated “poster” representing Olympian games, horse-racing, athletics, the grinning of clowns, and the strange performances of animals. On it I read: I To-night ; And fob the Rest of the Week : : VON STEIN’S CIRCUS. : : Gbeateb than the Greatest : : Show on Eabui! ■ ; i Do not Miss it. I had my inspiration. “Girls,” said I, as 1 reached home, “How would you । 'ike to go to the circus?” veTl?' a rn> ’ ,le of laughter. As ;_ nn it ■ -krbor. seat of the Michigan Umversn, d . e o{ aU om . M igan learning, the m.: len4 w been brought up to despise the Bllt I insisted that it was the onlv k^ nse . ment in town, and on the plea that a -nobody uVf but a fr6lic ’” and that wJI. ’ O,,M k “™ ‘^y tboigdr^i “ nJ ] m ’ sl wars o ( o real ei reus ?l„w„ - Ull - V tht ....cl, a; tVs/vanett ’fr box and were an object of admiration to the crowd. I had hardly settled into a seat at the back of the “box” when a man in the dress of a French clown, with a schoolboy s cap on his head and a red patch on his nose, ran up the tan-covered alley-way which led from the stable to the ring, and leaning over the edge of the “box,” whispered in a hoarse voice: “Say. are you the doctor?” “I am, friend,” said J, the audience eagerly watching this hurried colloquy. “What can I do for you?” “Johnny Stone, one of the clowns,” said he, “is feelin' bad in the head and fears he can't go on to-night We thought you d kindly step around and tell him if it was anything serious.” “I will come with pleasure,” said I. And, stepping out of the “box,” I let the French clown guide me to the extemporized dressing-rooms, where there was a scene of indescribable confusion. A wizened little girl was pirouetting on her toes like a ballet dancer. “We call her the Pearl—Pearl of the Antilles,” said my conductor. “She does the bareback act.” A snort, fat man was balancing on glasses. “Monsieur Ariel,” said the clown, introducing him. At which the short, fat man, Jacking tho delicacy of his Shakesjierian prototype, merely grunted. A Japanese clown was blowing up a ball which he was to toss about the ring. “He’s the saddest kind of a clown you ever saw-,” said my guide. “He never gets a smile; but he juggles first rate. I guess they’re not strong on j jokes in Japan.” Without pausing to observe that downs were not very “strong on jokes” even in America, 1 made my way past a clown with a toy hat on bis head, who had placed a piece of broken lookingglass against the wall, and was viewing with an eye of pride the last touch of “make-up” which he had addad to his face. Opposite him was another clown, with a far more elaborate mirror, fashioned like a large hook, and opening with a hinge; and while the first clown seemed anxious to impart a look of merriment to his face, this second clown bent all his efforts, rougestick in hand, to make himself a picture of unutterable woe. A little farther along, all ready for the fray, was a clown in a fools’cap, playing solitaire. He had spread out the cards on an old traveling trunk, and, holding a live of hearts, was studying the board as though his life depended on playing that card correctly. And so we came to a little dressingroom where a young man, comely in ■ features, which the paint did not dis- i guise, sat with one hand to his head as ' if in pain. His other hand hold a letter, and in the corner of his eyes, where the red paint was thickest, there seemed to be a moisture as of tears. He looked up hastily as we entered. “Johnny, this is the doctor,” said the clown who led xie. “It’s kind of him to come,” said the I young clown. “But I guess I can pull | through to-nigh‘, anyhow.”

“You’ve had badfnews?” said I. “Well, yes, sir. This letter says my sister’s dying.” “Johnny Stone,” said my guide, “is the son of the boss, that old man with a wig and dyed mustache that you passed at the door. He calls himself Von Stein, but his real name’s Stone. He treated Johnny’s sisters shameful, ! and would have served Johnny the | same way, only Johnny turned out to ] be one of the best leapers and vaulters in the business, and the boss found it handy to have him here as a clown.” “I guess the doctor isn’t interested in my family history,” said the young clown. “I felt a dizziness in my head, sir,” he continued, turning to me, “and as I want the show to get good ‘notices’ in the papers to-morrow, I didn’t care to miss my final vault, which always sends the people away good-tempered. So I thought you might give me something that would brace me up.” I wrote him a prescription, and just as I turned to send it to the drug store a young woman in black, who had evidently over-heard us, peeped into the dressing-room, and said : “I’ll fetch it, please sir,” and disappeared with the prescription, I returned to my young ladies. The circus was in full blast. The country folks were in ecstasies of delight. The

. fl THE GOOD NOTICE. Pearl of the Antilles on her bareback horse, Monsieur Ariel on his glasses, the great variety of clowns wjiom I had seen in the dressing-rooms, the trapezists, the performing animals —all lent I variety to the entertainment, which was i to conclude with the vaulting of the I whole company over the backs of horses placed side by side. I had noticed, from time to time in the ring, the young clown whom they called “Johnny.” Though I had recently see him crying over the news (from home, and had toned him up with \ physic, he seemed to be in high spirits, t awi Bie crowd roared at his sallies. ’’ Jhe young woman in black, who hud carried the prescription, sat alone on t the front tier ami followed him everyo where with writful eyes. ihe vaulters were led bv a clown _ with a shock of red hair like flame in ‘ wind. In the rear came .h-hnnv rrTeem ng’Sh jTbn^^!o\^ib^ihe*fWr^T the company. . After awhile he was left alone in the contest. All the others bad dropped out, as one horse after another was brought from the stables and placed in position for the vaulter to clear them. I had noticed an indecision in the young > clowns face as the distance widened. : 1 even thought of crossing the ring ; and warning him against further exertions. > But the country people clamored for more. For the final leap, Stone ran along the spring-board, rose in the air, turned a complete somersault, and, falling, । struck lull with his back on the spine of the farthest horse. The animal broke from the line, frightened but uninjured. The clown tumbled inanimate into the ring. I heard a scream—it may have been from one of our party. Before I well knew where I was, 1 found myself in the ring with the clown’s head on my knee, trying to keep off’ the crowd which pressed around. "Is he dead?” “No, no; he’s not dead. Give him some whisky. He’s coming to, poor lad.” But he did not “come to,” not for hours, until I had taken him to the nearest available place, which happened to be my own house. All the night long I sat by his bedside. I felt somehow as though I had murdered him, or helped to do it. For had I not “followed the multitude to do evil”—added my five dollars to tempt him, or, rather, the skinflint father, who was making money by him, to tumble for our amusement? True, he would have done it ail the same if I had not been there; but still, I leas there. I and my young ladies had swelled the number which had lured him to his destruction, and I felt guilty. What they felt, poor dears, I do not know; it was quite impossible for me to take any heed of them. “If he had died, doctor,” said somebody behind me, “1 should always have said that he had been murdered.” There was an intensity in the voice which quite startled me; for she had kept so quietly in the background that I had scarcely noticed her till now—the young woman in black. I noticed now that she was not an exceptionally pretty • young woman ; but she had soft, kind I eyes, an intelligent forehead, and an j excessively sweet voice. “Who are you, my dear?” I whispered. “Hissister ?” “No, sir.” “His cousin, then?” “No.” I looked my next question, and she । answered it with the simple honesty । whicu I expected from the owner of i । that voice. John and I were playfellows, then ! we kept company for live years, and I meant to be married next month. His j father was against it, or it ■would have ! been sooner, but Johnny wanted to ' quit the circus business, and old Stone I j wanted money and wouldn’t let him go. । : At last they agreed for six more per- > I formances, and this was the first of the j 1 six.”

never perform any more,” sail I, involuntarily. * “No, he couldn’t with that arm t am very thankful for it,” said she, wit] a touching, desperate clutch at th brighter side of things. 110 How could I tell her that the broken arm was probably the least injury whi^f had befallen the young man? ‘ Ch I “No, he shall never do anvthing oF , । that sort again,” continued she' “Father or no father, I’ll not have him mmdered.” Ul ' And there came a hard fierceness into her eyes, like that of a creatn re that has been long hunted down, au j at last suddenly turns at bay. “Where is his father? He has not come near us,” said I. “Os course not. There’s no greater coward than old Stone, and he’s sharp as a needle after money, or at keeping away when money’s likely to be wanted. But don’t be afraid. I’ve myself got enough to pay you. That’s ali the better. He’s my Johnny, now.” This was the substance of our conversation. carried on at intervals and in whispers, during the night. My fellowwatcher sat motionless, with her eyes fixed on the still face, from which even the painted grin had not beeu washed. At dawn the young man seemed to wake. He spoke feebly, but artidklatoly. — i “Doctor, thank you. I know you a&d I know' what’s happened. Only juLt one word. I want Bess. Please fetqyjlp Bess.” “Yes, Johnny”—spoken quite softly and composedely; “yes, Johnny, I’m here.” It was a diffiuclt case. A first-rate surgeon whom I fetched next day could make nothing of it. There were no injuries external or internal, but the lower limbs were apparently paralyzed. He had been laid upon his bed, ami there he lay yet, though it was years ago, suffering little and with all his faculties clear, but totally helpless— | obliged to be watched over and waited I upon, like an infant, by his old wife. j “For he was an old man, and he hi\ I a wife; which was lucky for him,” sail I this doctor. “H’s rather harder for thiol poor fellow, who may have to lie as he does now’ for the rest of his days.” “Hush,” I said, for he was talking., aloud in the passage, and close beside i us stood poor Bess. I hoped six had ; not heard, but the first sight of her face ' convinced me that she had; only, jomen ■ have at times a self-control that is wonderful. I thought it best then to tell her the whole truth. % “Thank you, sir,” she replied. I “Thank you. for telling me all. My poor Johnny I” i I took her into the parlor and gave her a glass of wine. “I don’t need it,” she said. I’m user to sick nursing. I nursed my sister <j! her death bed. We were dressmaker and then Johnny got me as costume maker to the circus. I can earn a god deal by my needle, sir,” “Will his father do nothing?'’ “Nothing. Old Stone has gn •her I ‘wife,’ he calls her, and a lot of ot er children, and doesn't care two cents or Johnny,” t,-—J'llyor fellow.” wu-u a- tumwvu iAry touch of asperity, “he’s not a poor fel-I low—he’s a very clever fellow; lip liu- ; derstands bookkeeping. He was think <WL JJ -- - TRAGEDY AND COMEDY. <ing of trying for a clerk's situMmn. ! With that and my dress-making we should have done very well, if we had once been married.” .1 I hardiy knew what to answer. I fel so sorry for the girl; and yet she did not seem to realize her ailliction. There was an unwonted light in her eyes, and | a glow on her poor face, strange in one ' whose hopes in life had been suddenly ■ blasted. “Doctor,” she went on, “may I speak i to you? I've nobody else, not a soul, I belonging to me except Johnny. Will you let him stop here for a week or ‘ two?” “A year, if necessary.” “Thank you. He shall be no trouble to you. I’ll take care of that—only i there’s one thing to be done first. Doc- ; tor, I must marry Johnny.” She said it in such a matter-of-fact ; tone that at first I doubted if 1 had ; rightly heard. 4 “Marry him! Good heavens, youdbn’t mean ” “Yes, I do, sir. Just that.” " - “Why, he will never be able to do a stroke of work for you—may never rise from Ins bed—will have to be tended like an infant for months, and mav die i after all.” ‘ . “No matter, sir. He’d rather die with I me than with anybody. Johnny loves ! me. I’ll marrv him.” There was a quiet determination about l the woman which put all argument i aside. J tried none. lam an oid-fash- | loned fellow, wlio never was so happy as to have any woman love him. But I have known enough oi women to J 'eel surprised at nothing they do of this sort. “And now, sir ” said Bess, “how is it to be managed ? , Os course, the sooner it was managed the better; and I found, on talking to i her, that she had already arranged it IHI m her own mmd. Her feelings and habits clung to a marriage “bv a nroner clergyman.” I promised to' ca 1 i . a | munster, a friend of mine, next morn j ' That will do,” she said. “And row I must go upstairs and speak to Job , ” [ ceived it, it is impossible for me to re- 1 late. It was not my business; indeed I it was nobody’s business but their own.’ I : *

Now, though I may be a very foolish old fellow, still I am not such a fool as I may appear. Though I had taken these young people into my house, still I was not going to let them be married without having investigated their antecedents. I went to tne circus and there endeavored to discover Meinherr von *Steiu. I saw him slipping out of the ring where the “Pearl of the Antilles,” in a dirty cotton skirt, was careering on her bareback horse, 'while in the center, on the table of tho night before—what an age it seemed ago—a little fat man, in shirt sleeves and stocking sole?, was solemnly m alking on bottles.

From him—Monsieur Ariel, who had ■ been inquiring at my house in the ■ morning, leaving his name as Mr. Higgins, and who had entirely ceased to be surly—l gained full confirmation of Elizabeth Hall’s story. She and John Stone were respectable ana wellconducted young people, and were evidently favorites among the circus performers. 'Tlie diowns were going on with their business as though nothing had happened. A good-natured young fellow sat with one foot on a trunk, resting after a tremendous race with the ringmaster. He smiled as I passed. “Give our love to Johnny,” said he. On another trunk sat the clowu with Jhe toy bat. He was intensely amused by a newspaper he held in his ’ hand. He read one paragraph again '«-nd again. “That’s » Dully notice,” said he. In the glow of the laudation lavished upon him by a local critic, he had forgotten Johnny Stone’s existence. As for Her von Stein, finding at last that they could not escape me, he returned to the ring, and there —while the horses still went prancing around, and the little girl went a-leaying, and we caught the occasional click-click of Mousier Ariel practicing among his ! glass bottles—the father stood and I heard what I had to tell him conceru- ! ing his son. * “It’s very unfortunate, doctor,” he ■said; “especially so for me, with my parge family. What am 1 to do with him? What”—becoming more energetic—“what the devil am I to do with him ?”

I told him that all lie had to do was •to give his consent to his son's marriage with Elizabeth Hall. He appeared i greatly astonished at first, and then as ’ greatly relieved. “My consent! Certainly. They're j both 25 old enough to know their I minds ami have been courting ever so long. She’s an excellent joung woman; can earn a good income, too. • Yes. give ’em my consent, and, in case it may be useful to them—give 'em this. too. Ho tumbled in his pocket, took out I an old purse, and counted out into my' j hand, with an air us great magnificence, I five dirty one-dollar bills—which was all I ever saw of the money of Herr; von Stein. M hen I gave them, with this mes-, sage, to Bes*, she crumpled them up in her fingers with a carious sort of smile, but she never said a word. £ L have been at many a marriage,: showy and quiet, gay and grave, hear*^ ' and heartless, but I am ready "to dv < I dare solemnly that I never saw onel j which touched me as much as that briefs I ceremony which took place at the bed-v side of John Stone, the circus clown, c It did not occupy more than five min- s utes, for in the bridegroom’s condition! the slightest agitation was to be avoided. My housekeeper and I were the only witnesses. The bride’s wedding dress was the shabby old black gown which she had: not taken off since the accident oc-$ curred. Her face was very worn and weary, but her eyes were bright and her voice steady. She never faltered till the last words were spoken, ands the minister had shaken hands with: her and wished her every hapinness. "Is it all done?” said she, half be-r

wildered. t “Yes, my girl,” answered my oldt house-keeper; “you are married, sures enough.” t Then Bess knelt down, put her arms around Johnny’s neck, and laid heij j head beside him on the pillow, sobbing ! a little, but softly even now. t “Oh, my dear, my dear; nothing can r ever part us more.” But the poor ; clown turned his mouth to hers. “Kiss me, Bess,” he said in a voice hardly audible. i She touched his lips and drew back" ! —ihey were io cold. Then, with a 3 । passionate, despairing movement, she' j kissed him again, and as she looked 1 I into his eyes the light of them went: i out, and she was lett alone with the. | dead. — Illustrated American.

Are Women Generally Cruel? . A woman is not usually supposed tc’ ibe cruel. Still, facts are against the t 1 assumption that she is not. Her thumb^ ■ was sure to be down when the gladiator^ 1 looked up into the tiers of the Coliseum® fox - the verdict of the people; her shout was always fierce when the matador and, the bull plowed the earth together. It j is more sentimental to speak, of her asj “gentle,” but, enduring in pain, won-, derfully resistant to trouble, it is woi man and not man who shows the last- t( I mg power after all. History has proved ] her pitiless, has proved her the origin-^ । ator of many crimes at which men,would . ■ shrink, and as able to look on at sights' at which the stronger sex would cringe,-, still it has been said''•of man that he is^ selfish and hard, and the verdict must j stand. The case which brought this to, mind was of a man who, on his death-^ bed, was in spite of the pleading of his ', physicians, deprived of the soothing in-$ fluences of an opiate because his wife f?i wished him to have his full senses that he might recognize her when he died. He had been ill for a longtime and was dying a lingering death of terrible suf-., 1 faring. All hope that he could be^ helped was gone. It was the question , of a few hours, and the humane doctors’, were in favor of easing these last mo-' meats of pain. His wife refused, on the ,£ selfish plea that he might die without^ 3 recognizing her at the last. — Batton\ n Home Journal. Ir< in Os the Parsees there are only 200, -ft 000 in the world. They are not put? u numerically to the Smiths, to say noth ’o ing of the Smithes and Smythes.

Idle Tears. Self control among women has fortu- ' nately come into fashion, and a heroine i cannot expect to add to her charms, eitherdn novels or real li.'e, by giving I way to a “sweet sensibility.” Mrs. Thrale, Doctor Samuel Johnson’s Friend, often had, as a visitor at hei bouse, a young woman named Sophy । Streatfield.who wasuniversally acknwoledged to be a most fascinating young ; woman. She was, moreover, one of ihose who, even in that tearful age, ; proved decidedly amusing from her habit »f unnecessary weeping. One day Mrs. । Thrale promi-ed Fanny Burney, who had never witnessed the nhenomenon

that she should “see Miss Streatfield :ry.” As Sophy was taking ber leave, Mrs. Thrale urged her to st'av, adding:

‘lf you go, I shall know you don’t love me as well as Lady Gresham.” Then, indeed, the tears came into Miss Streatfield’s eyes, and rolled down her pretty cheeks. “Come here, Miss Burney!” called Mrs. Thrale, in triumph. “Come and iee Miss Streatfield cry I” The young lady did not^eem to be in ihe least offended by this, but gently wiped her eyes, and became composed • igain. At another time, as Madam D'Arblay’s ‘Diary” relates, Doctor Johnson ami t inother gentleman had a disput^T^ou " hich Miss Streatfield, who was pesent, , began to cry. i "Well,’’said a bystander,“l have heard io much of those tears that I would aave given the universe to have a sight [ of them.” “Oh,” put in Mrs. Thrale, “she shall cry again if you like.” • "Oh, pray do,” said the gentleman, . ‘let me see a little more of it!” j “Yes, do cry a little, Sophy!” said , Mrs. Thraie, in a wheedling voice. I Fray, do! Consider now, you are gos ing to-day, and it’s very hard if you j won’t cry a little. Indeed, Sophy, you [ought to cry.” Now for the wonder of wonders! hea Mrs. Thrale, in the coaxing voice a nur»e soothing a baby, bad run on rfor some time, two cystal tears came into i Sophy a eyes, and rolled gently down -her cheeks. She did not offer to coniceal them, and, indeed, she was smiling ill the time.— Month’s Comnanion.

V IIIJIUI C I An Awlul Fred ica men t fora Alan. - Somewhere I read that it was the I “fad” to make Easter presents of gar- j Hers to your lady friends, and I thought the idea was a good one. To be in 5 style on the occasion I went into one of four big stores, supposing, of course, 1 ’could buy a pair from a male clerk, but [to my borrow, the door-walker steered ■me up to the counter behind which was ’i pretty and captivating girl. i “Have you any Easter garters?” I isked. "Easter garters!” she exclaimed. “Why, 1 never heard of them before. We have Fourth of July, Washington’s । Birthday and St. Patrick’s Day gar‘ters for ladies but no Easter Day ones. Haven’t you got it wrong?” she' asked with a smile that made my watch stop. Then I told her what I had read. "Oh,” she said. Then out came several pairs of garters that were marvels 3f beauty. She first wanted to know A I <le.-iiied garter.-j to gi Around the li m uT^^had to confess to her that I didn’t know anything about side elastics, but I supposed all women wor b garters, yet I really did not know’ much about it anyway. Then she smiled again, which started my watch ind made my heart go pit-a-pat, "What size?” she answered. Here I was floored. “Give me the regulation size,” I said. “But you don’t want them too small Jr too large,” she answered sweetly at seeing my painful embarrassment. "How large a lady is she?” “ Your size exactly,” I cried. “Well, here is the size I wear,” she said, handing me out a silk pair with an ornamental clasp. “Give them to me, and give them to me quick,” 1 said, and throwing dowm

ctiAVA VIUUBIUg UUWU the price, made my escape, while all the girls and women in the store tittered and laughed as I heard some one of them say: “That jay has got it bad I” — Albany Press. A Voice From Ilie Grave. A pathetic story is that told in connection with the phonograpl'. A Judge in a Southern State came to Cincinnati not long igo. He had never heard the phonograph. When he visited an office be spoke into the funnel, and was amazed and amuzed to hear his own voice repeated afterward through the tubes of the machine. Two days after he returned home he died suddenly. His daughter came to Cincinnati on business, and while here a friend took ber to hear a Dhonograuh.

. xuvum vwvAK wui vvy num a puviil u< Hl. It was a curious coincidence that she should have been escorted to the very jilice her father had visited but a short time before. The young woman, w’ho vas in deep mourning, was very much sutertained by some of the musical seections the phonograph repeated. The operator afterward picked up a sylinder from a pile, placed it in the jhonograph, and said, “Listen to this.” he young woman placed the tubes igain to her ear, the bar was pulled out,

ind the cylinder' began to revolve. Beore a dozen words had been repeated he women in black swooned. Not nnil she recovered was the cause of her ainting known. The voice that had come to her ears rom the phonograph was that of her lead father. It war as a voice from he grave. She afterward purchased a ihonograph, and the cylinder containng her father’s speech was given to .er. It is carefully cherished in the Southern home. — Cincinnati Commercial. W e Should Comp aiu. Englishmen who come here complain hat we are forever shaking hands, ’he boot should be on the other foot, tis the American in England who hould complain that the peojile over here do not shake bands. It grows to ea frightful predicament when it has appened twenty times in a day that ou have put out a hand to seal an in•oduction or a meeting with a shake, nd have found the other fellow looking ; your hand coldiy, and not offering to at out his own. Weare the ones to >mplain, not the bmg Th.— Aei? I ork un.

PRETTY SHOP GIRLS. j Th ° Ap '“y of I’hysical Beauty to E« Seen Every Working Day. I As the men of New York go down and up town, to and from theif work bv the elevated or surface ears or L y the more natuial mode ot locomotion known as walking, does it ever occur to them that a small district of this city t irns out daily a multitude of surprisinglv pretty girls? B J Let the reader turn into Grand street west of Broadway, at the hour when the large manufactories of Mercer, Greens and Wooster streets and South sth avenue pour out their thousands of women workers, and he will be literally amazed by the manifold evidences of beauty that meet his gaze. Girls with

large lustrous eyes and a graceful, easy carriage; girls natty and chipper in build, bright-eyed and with the thor-ough-bred gait; slender and plump girls, brunettes peerless in face, superb of form and of queenly movement, tall girls, genuine blondes, with handsome features. Slight built girls of small and medium stature, neither brunette nor blonde, but a happy creamy mixture of both, pass in shoals in everv direction. One would think that these girls, not being unmindful of their own charms would be inclined to frequent fiirtations with the male passer-by. Not so. For aside from an occasional quick glance ot the eye, as if mentally summing up the qualifications of the masculine beholders of this every day scene, they gave no further indication of observance. M hen one goes into a dissertation of the characteristics that make up the many pleasing attractions of this multiplicity of gocd-looking girls, he is apt to ponder upon not only the cosmopolitan phases of the city, but the amalgamation of all these types in the great American one. For somehow the question resolves itself into this, that while these girls were of all nationaliiics, or rather had sprung from all nationalities, the resemblance to the original type was a faint one at the best.the grand total being the gradual and thorough Americanization of the whole. _ It will be noted, too, that without the rich accessories of high-priced mantles, dresses, millinery and the valuable

gems of the jewelry marts, that cover and bedeck their more fortunate sisters of fifth and Madison avenues, these girls are richer far in the possession of Mother Nature's rare gifts of beauty ot person, and can give the Fifth avenue maidens many good points in the graceful art of walking. No studied Delsartian methodis theirs, but a novel, delightful and noticeable style all their own. They can also give a few hints in the art of dressing. For notwithstanding the lack of an extensive wardrobe to choose from, the decidedly becoming manner in which they were attired, attested their true artistic instinct, Th« Traveaux Pony. The travaux pony furnishes the sole means of transportation of the Indian camp, except sometimes a dog hitched to a diminutive tranieau, and, weight for weight, drags on his tepee poles more than the best mule. in Uncle Sani’s service does on an army wagon. When camp is broken, the squaws strip the tent poles of tlmir buuTfr, HlwmWWtm erings, and it is these poles wldchfu^ - nish the wheels of the Indian vehicle. The Blackfoot makes the neatest trappings for the travaux ponies and pack-saddles. The pony is fitted with a huge leather bag, heavily fringed, and gaudy with red and blue flannel strips and beads of many colors. Over this goes the pack-saddle, which is not very dissimilar to the riding saddle, and has parpendicular pommel and can tie, and in the pommel is a notch to.receive one end of the tepee poles, which are sometimes bound together two or three on each side, and trailing past either flank of the pony, are held in place by two pieces of wood lashed to the poles just behind his tail. In the socket so made rides the parfleche, a sort of raw-hide trunk, and this receives the camp utensils, plunder, children, sometimes an old man or woman, puppies, and all the other camp impedimenta; while a squaw ridebehind the pack-saddle on ihe pony, indifferently astride or sidewise with her feet on the poles, and perhaps a youngster bestrides its neck. Thus laden, the wonderful little beast, w hich is rarely up to fourteen hands, plods along all day, covering unheard of distances, and living on bunch-grass, wflh a mouthful of water now and again. ulhere are apt to be several ponies to carry the plunder of the occupants of one tepee, and often one of them is loaded down with the rougher stuff, while a second may be decked with the finery, and carry only one squaw; par-

ticularly if she happens to be a new purchase and a favorite of the chief. A squaw is usually about as good a horseman as her buck, and rides his saddle ox- bareback with as much ea e as a city woman rocks in hex - chair. Indeed, it is not uncommon to find women in the fighting ranks, and doing a man’s full duty.— Harper's 21agazine. The Drop on Him. “Good morning,” smiled the long-

haired man with a persuasive sweetness n his voice, as be glided up to the editor’s desk and deposited a piece of manuscript on the confusion there. “Good morning,” echoed the editor, picking it up gingerly and opening it, “what’s this?” “A poem, sir,” said the trembling wretch. “Os your own composition ?” inquired the editor, without flinching. “O, yes, sir; I drop into poetry sometimes,” and he smiled with a faint hope peeping up over the horizon of his desire. “Um-um,” continued the editor reading along slowly, “I see'that you do, and this time you have dropped in over your head. But the waste basket shall not get it, or the office g'-at either. Here, take it away aud trade it off for a step ladder so you can climb out. Good-bye, run along now,” and the editor jabbed his blue pencil into fortyseven lines of a fifty line article on a church fair and the pcet swallowed a lump in his throat and went out coughing.—Free Pros. If you want a man’s candid opinion of you, make him angry and you’ll get it.