St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 22, Number 47, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 12 June 1897 — Page 2

. N et . A ] LTt ki Lah i i~ E R ] S 2 ‘ﬁ { \\—==, w 4'& N / _‘t‘%ﬁ iae = . [ ftl' Ls g i ) [/ ae i~ A X AN P TR | ey T g ¢ T 3 *lp’- Q:' “TP.&”‘N‘ \ ; ! JEEER N\ ir ' £A~ I e. AN ']r TR~ o TS ¢ V'L | R B TRE A0 R 5.,“ JL 0 A "-? \ ;‘."’: ! ...;."»"' 3 - . ‘¢ & \ ..;‘._.- o O & despite my omi‘ne(::lsot?igmvpry. But Not: tie had grown very pale, and Yorke was very silent. I think no one else noticed the number; but I felt miserable and uncomfortable, and tried in vain to shake off the effects of superstitious fancy. At last the long, tedious business of eatfng and drinking was over. 1 was expecting some more people in the course of the evening., and by ihe time the gomln-! men left the table the rooms were half | full. Nettie was the center of an admiring circle, and certainly no one there looked half so lovely. 1 watched Yorke as | he entered. He glanced round, then went ' straight over to her side, and calmly en- | grossed her attention in a manner th:lti soon left him a clear field. Satisfied with this arrangement, I turned my anontiunl to my other gnests, ! Presently there was some singing :m«ll music, but only at intervals, so as to re-| lieve, not check, conversation., I liked the ' buzz of voices and the sound of laughter, f and I liked to see the gay groups forming | and braking themselves up, from time m’ time, in a bright kaleidoscope fashion,i that left the room as a background to varied pictures, ’ 1 had a dim idea all that evening that | Yorke had determined to speak to me, | but avoidance was easy, and 1 had al dread of anything appreaching a tete-a i tete with him, My remembrances of them | were not pleasant. However, he had| watched hLis opportunity better than 1] guarded against it, for I found himn sud»! denly by my side. | “I want to congratulate you,” he began. | “The society papers were right. You have i really become quite brilliant.” ‘ “I think,” 1 said, glancing round, “that | I may pass—in a crowd.” ‘i ‘ Slf that is your ambition,”” he said, | “you may assure yourself of its achieve- | ment. I had no idea you had become such | a—such a success.” i “Do vou thifk it is the effect of the groove 1L move in, or—my nature? I am - 4{nelined to think it is the former. Things are made very easy for one in society, you know. The world is very kind,” I answered, taking up my fan and half turning away. ‘ “Are you going?’ he said abrupl!y.' “How you grudge me even five minutes! | Mhis is the first time you have spoken to‘ me to-night.” i “I have no doubt,” I said, “there willi be plenty of other nights in which it may | be possible to repair that omission.” i “Will there?"” he said eagerly. “Do you | mean that I may call here—that I am| likely to meet you—that you will be | friends with me again?”’ ' “My days,” I said tranquilly, “are | Tuesdays from three to six, and Saturday I evenings from nine to twelve. You may | eall here on any of them if you feel in-| elined.” “In a crowd like this?” “Sometimes,” I said, ‘“there are more. Mo you really call this a crowd ?"’ ! “I think.” he said, passionately, *‘that you grow more hateful every time I see | you. I never could have believed it possible that any one could change as you have done.” | I'or one moment, I think, my self-com- | mand forsook me. For he was \\'l’ﬂ)llf..{',i and to-night it had been acting—and very hard acting, too. But I would not let him ' gee that I was unhappy. I would not | betray the secret trouble of my heart. To ' jest and laugh, to smile and talk, feeding' fiow keenly he watched me, had not been | easy, but I had accomplished it. I felt | myself trembling as he spoke. 1 dared | not look at him, l “Olomment on vour manners,” I said ;n* last, “would be superfluous. But you might remember that when a gmn}mn:m‘ addresses a lady he usually throws a thin veil of politeness over the truths he is frank enough to speak.” He turned on his heel and left me, but 1 should be sorry to transcribe the word that hissed between his set teeth. I will give him the credit of rot intending me 40 hear it. CHAPTER XX ‘ Despite Yorke's ungracious reception of | my iavitation he came the very next Sat- | urday evening The dinner party had| been on the previous Tuesday, so he had not waited long II He stood beside me after shaking hands, | and listened to Nettie's singing. eril voice was sweet and thrilling. The sim- | ple ballad she sang owed nothing to itself, E BHut a great deal to her interpretation. _\s.;i she finished Yorke bent to me, ;; “You don't look a gay and worldly crea | ture to-night. Who would fanecy a little | thing like that could touch you?" ! “*Nettie's voice always touches me,” i gaid, a little ashamed of the tears that! were trembling on my lashes. *“lt is not fit for ecrowds and drawing rooms, only for one's better moments.” ; He went up to Nettie. I saw him look ing over some music that lay on the piano. I thought perhaps hie was asking her to sing again. After my remarks I might aaturally have expected it. The room began to fill rapidly. The “"erowd,” of which I had warned Yorke, was certainly here to-night. One thing followed another. Some one played, some one sang, some one recited. Clever people, pretty people, charming people, quiet people, took their turns, and played their parts, and entertained themselves with their surroundings. If it had been my smbition to make my “evening” a success, 1 suppose I could have believed I had ac- : vomplished it without overweening vanity. “Yon look very tired,” said Yorke Ferrers’ voice in my ear later on in the evenIng. “You have been standing, talking,

laughing, receiving, for neanly three hours. Let me take you down to the refreshment room. I have just brought Nettie up. It is cool there, and there are some seats,” I am rather tired,” I said, taking his offered arm. “It is a pity London drawing rooms are so small. One can never manage sufficient seats, I find."” ~ “I think your spirits will wear out your | bpdy, he said; “you bear excitement badly. You enjoy it, perhaps; yes,” gravely, “I think you do enjo, it. But you are not like yourself in the least.” | “I wish,” I said pettishly, “you would s aw«‘?'i“? 3:;:; fer 9 | business of mine; only T can’t help wondering why any one who is as happy as yon say you are, should throw herself heart and soul into a whirl of dissipation with the energy you display, aud not the i strength.” “Os course,” I said with a little laugh, “my mirth is a false and hollow thing, and I—-1 am only a giddy butterfly of fashion. This is a new sensation for me ~~the trying to be a social success."” “It would suit you better,” he said, “to be only a domestic one.” “Perhaps,” [ said, “it would; but,” laughing again, “the one is very brilliang, and the other very slow.” As I said these words, Sir Ralph entered the supper room with one of his favorite Jowagers. 1 think he heard them I am almost sure he heard them, and the fact that he had done so sent the blood in a hot tide to my face. “Let us go,” I said abruptly; “I must look after my guests upstairs.” He gave me his arm. We passed Sir Raiph. I saw the stern look in his eyes, and my heart sank within me. What ill fate always brought him across my path at the most compromising moment? | ‘ The evening came to an end at last the rooms were empty. Nettie, I and Sir Ralph lingered a few moments and discussed lightly the various oceurrences, I made a move at last, I “I am very tired,” I said, “and it is Sunday morning. You," looking at Sir Raiph, who was leaning against the man- | telpiece, “you, I suppose, are going to have a smoke?” ] “Yes,” he answered; “at least such s ! my desire.” “ “That,” I said lightly, as I glanced back ] at him over my shoulder, “sounds alarm. ' ingly like a bit of the Church Catechism |or the Murriage Service. But perhaps ‘ you thought it appropriate to the hour and | day."” i The staircase faced the door, As 1 | reached it, 1 could see hia face reflected in the glass by which he stood. 1 noticed how pained and sad it looked, and 1 felt somehow as if my jesting words had jarred upon him. As i stood there an instant I caught a glimpse of another face I looking back at me. With a sudden pang ‘ of wonder I saw it was my own, ‘ ! The hue of my dress was not whiter than that colorless reflection; the gloam-j ing satin that trailed behind me made the | darkness of eyes and hair look startling | against its snowy hues. ‘ { 1 turned quickly away. | I “Do I really look Hke that?" I thought, | ’ with a little pang of alarm. **No wonder Yorke warned me."” t “Are you too tired to listen to something | I have to say 7" asked Nettie, following | |me into my room a few moments later, I I had sunk down iute a large easy chair by the fire. 1 felt utterly tired out. ] “It is so strange,”’ ghe said, and haif 1 shyly nestled her head against my knm\,’ “I-—I hardiy believe it yet, only that I am so happy. Jean, can’t you guess?’ i l My ieart scemed to stand still for a mo- l ment in sheer surprise. I bent dewn and | raised her head. | “Is it about Yorke?' I cried breathless. | ly. ’ “Yes," she said, the shy, brilliant color | !ﬂushinu from brow to chin. *“He has | ! spoken.” ; ' I was too utterly amazed to answer a ' word. At last I found breath and speech, ’ and, I fear, indignation, { “IDo you mean to say,”" I eried, “that | he has proposed--actually proposed 7" “Oh,” said Nettie, raising her head and laughing softly, “how prosaically you put | it. I don’t believe a man ever does really propose. He just drifts on, and says i something—a word, even a look is enough; i and then—swhy, then, you know it is all | right.” “And so,” I said stupidly, “you know it is all right?” “Yes, of course I do. 1 suppose it will be a long engagement, because he has 'not even been called yet, and there are all | those dinners to eat. Stil,” with that | little happy laugh, “T don’t mind walting ’ﬂny time, however long, and so I told | him. Oh, I have been longing to tell you | about it all the evening! You—you did | not guess, 1 suppose ?”’ \ “*No,” I answered in a dull, heavy tone: [ “1 certainly did not guess. When- when i] 1 was it? f \ “It was before he took you down into | the supper room,"” she said, turning her i eyes upon the fire once more, and smiling in her soft content. *“Oh, Joan, 1 am so happy.” k *Of course you are,” I answered, trying to galvanize my voice into similar jubii lant tones; “and so am I, and so will be { Sir Ralph, and—and everybody. Really | nothing could have turned out better for 5 —for all parties.” ‘ “I knew you would be pleased,” shn]l ! said softly; I told him so. I said it lmdi i been your great wish—that you were so | ; happy in your own married life, you always were wishing me to be the same. }.]l’)llll”~~lf\'|kill‘,2' suddenly up at me—*do | you think he was very fond of you once, { that he—that he really loved you?"” : “looved me!” I said bitterly: *‘of course | not. Do not vex yourself on that score, -| my child. 1t was only a passing faney.” ; *lt is nice of you to say so,”’ she an- ‘| swered, a little more grn\w\'!y than she had | yet spoken, “and—and 1 suppose, after | all, & man is not always constant to one , | love.” \ “Hush!” I said. “I hear Sir Ralph’s -| step. We—we will talk about this to-mor-row. I am tired to-night, and ill-temper-i ed‘;‘lhut."A— kissing her tenderly and fond_]y L pray that you may be happy, Nettie, v | always—always happy.”

OHAPTER XXI. & = “Not in bed yet?” asked Sir Ralph. a he entered, while Nettie flitted through the opposite door and evaded him. S "NO," I Sﬂ.ﬁd. “I have Lt;#"‘" some wonderful news. Come here, and T will tell you.” e He advanced; but he did not sit dowr only stood there by the mantelpiec: —t straight, massive, with s eyes beat on ’ the fire, ' 1?_3;?"@5!,, “It will please youw, T am sur on rapidly. “You—you nuv:%’“;: ~often. Can’t you guess it?"” - "L am not good at guessin, "he answered constrainedly, “You ‘had better tell me at once.” R “Well,” I said, bursting into oct without further prelude, "Yorkq’;;j”?'m. posed 1o Nettie at last!” e e started. The words certﬂ%ﬁﬁ” ¥ v sed him from his composure. S “Proposed!” he said, almost # Incredulously as I myself said it a short time before. *“Are you sure?” e “She has just been telll:;; me,” I answered; “she was too elated to keep the news very long to herself. A@ you"— fond of her. You nluspetioped sie woulc marry her, and now-—" - 8 “Now," he interrupted, | not so sure about his feelings—that isall; and Nettie is too good, and sweet, and fair to be the victim of an unworthy ciprice.” “I--1 don't understand you,* ! sald, coldly. b “Do you not? Then I wi!l‘% more plainly. Yorke is not worthy her love, and I do not think he has %n her his own.” i “What makes you think so? I asked, faintly, He answered me in one words “Observation.” Then T grew cold, and sick, and afraid, I knew now the secret of the change In him. I knew he had guessed Yorke's feclings for me, and I knew, toe, that my own reticence, deception, confusion, had | been like so many additional proofs for | his suapicions te rest on. “Are you pleased 7' he asked me suddenly, after a long, dreary panse, I started and looked up, but as I wer x his eyes the hot blood once more rushed , to my face and neck. The vory certainty i of misinterpretation only added to my | confusion. } "Os course I am pleased,” I sald, but | my volce was unsteady; “very pleased, | There is always something dalightful to a | woman in a friend's marriage, It" | Inughing f::oimhiy “it is the next bMt; thing to be ng married herself, And that, | of course, (s the event of her life” “1 suppose it ie,” he said, bitterly, and | turned away. “It is a pity she doos not | kive it a little more serious consideration | than you appear to have done.” ‘ “Do yon mean,” T said hotly, “that you 3 ure dissatisfied with me-—that you regrot | nlready o } "Regret!” he interrupted, with rising passion. ““luat is a poot Wwatd--a very poor wond When as ,“_LOlﬂ" life to amend a mistake =y e ﬁ“m that all that lide is marsed B 4 spoilt by kremm of it—one feels &R BE more than regrat.” TN ; I folt as if an ey hand WY eald wpom | my heart; as if words wonld not come ‘e relieve or sxpress in any ond way this sud. | den, fearful sense of mystory, “Oh" 1 eried suddenly, "1 never | thought you could be ecruel I never | thought you could misjudge—=® { “And L. he said, Dbittedly, ‘“never | thought that a day would come when 1 shonld know to my cost yom were not | honest with me. Perhaps,” with a little sudden break in the deep valee, "1 over. | estimate the impartance of thim{l 1‘: does not seem a trifle to ;e that that | Yot shou'ld have withheld tnﬂbing I!l.‘\2‘ was in your heart, or had been in it. I am not I'ke most men. [ told you that | long ago.” i “Yes,” 1 said helplessly, "“But 1 have | not done vou any wrong.” ‘, He hebd up bis hand as if (o ward 0o a | hlow ! “It was my fault,” he sald bitterly: “it i has always been my fault, I see it now | that it is too late. Ninelysuine peopla | it of every hundred mar their lives by a | mistake. I am no worse off than -than | the rest of them,” | “You do not think of mel”™ ¥ eried with | the fierceness of desperatiof. Then my | strength failed; tears burst from my eyes | in a flood of unresisting misery; I burled | my face in my hands, sobbing broken!y. | He came and laid his hand gently on my | head. Once before 1 remembered that | same action, and how L, 'in my fond con- | ceit, had fancied it seemed a8 if he wero | blessing me, But now-—-now--what did it i mean now "’ | “My dear,” he said, and his voice trem- | bled, I do think »f you—how pitifully | and sorrowfully you will never know. It i is the sense of that pity and that sorroir | that appalls me. And you are so—so young; and I--what can I do? Heaven help me, what can I do? Ig s not in my power to set you free. Dungdives aro sot- g tered with too heavx%l;g;' Wr anght but | death to-break— ot B ... ‘ “1 wish,” T cried sw% ’ ;,t" would come! Oh, I wish it woul@ b His hand dropped. gpl at last choked back my sobs and rfsed my head, 1 found he had left the roghh For a moment I sat therefquite passive; my eyes traveled from peMt to point—from the cut glass and thedivory brushes on the h:i?\! table to the gleaming folds of the costly satin 1 had worn. A sort of numbness settled upon me. I was wearied out, and yet I could not move, | became conscious of a foolish feeling of hatred against that unoffending gown. “To-morrow,” I half whispered to myself, “I will lock l'?~away. 1 will[ never wear it again—nevep!” | Then slowly, one by ong, the tears he- I gan to fall down my cheelks again—great, | }»Eil.\lli{l;‘f, N".’ll‘“llg ‘lmps. ()"(,‘, I remenm- l ber, touched my hand, ﬂnd 1 found myself looking at it in a diny Fay, as if wondering it were not blood. f “Life is not getting eafler for me." I thought. “To-night 1 thin it has seemed too hard!"” (To be ('ontin' d.) One of the most wordderful things abont eagles is their pilver of vision. Their eyes are much be er and stronger than ours, and they har ‘not only to look upon the sun, b i they can see much more distinetl { han we can. Even baby eagles can gig their parents at immense distances goming to feed them, as they plainlyhow by thefr cries, before a humarydee can posstbly make them out in the \arest light.

T EDUCATORS TO MEET.[ TWENTY THOUSAND EXPECTED AT MILWAUKEE. Nationai Educational Association Meeting Will Be a Most Important Gathering-Alil of the Great Pedagogues Will Be Prescnt, Will Eclipse All Others. During the second week in July Milwaukee will be the Mecca of the teachers of the United States. Then the city will be filled with educators representing every class, from the kindergarten to the university. Then will be held the convention of the National Kducational Association, to whose sessions pedagogues in every part of the country are looking forward with interest. Eleven thousand two hundred and nine-ty-seven life members, active members and associate members participated in the roceedings of the annual meeting of the g‘aﬂonﬂ Educational Association which was held at Denver in 1895, Last year, ‘when the convention was held at Buffalo, the number taking part was 9,073, It is with these statistics in view that Milwau-* kee is making preparations to entertain a large influx of visitors from all parts of the United States on the occasion of the thirty-sixth annual meeting of the association. Upon the educational and professional side, the conventions of the association appeal strongiy to the interests of teachers and of all intelligent people. Fach of

' NATIONAL EDUCATIONAL ASSOCIATION CONVENTION. ’ (4 ;ﬁ‘".'-’:\' rad : / < ! o ‘ E / s s !’- H YA ANy s i /o AR WY 5 N o A~ : & : ey . N e pFS \R b s 2 ‘@“"\ s : ¢',' « o I /{ ¢ '."'}‘, g PRES |-v™.- 4 v . Ny | A M ;SF. ’ ’ / l ‘f KEE i A.“ f i . quz) / d e L Z - ! F“P ’/- aln/ ' 4 . ‘.,l'f ‘ A 4 \’f ! 1 it A 7t - , . T L N m ;—,:—:-t".m“- a}l‘g\ EEE o T g.r"f | A P - A &b‘ R et 133 VIR YT “ra 3‘5“: {:( S E ATI ad B RO IR oel By B } g-f; %.,t;d“:”;l;“ ih LT 1 i, B 3 VR AR A e A ? LR ST RAy iRy el | SRR YNe AR SRR e | O = AR R T ‘51,; ooy UL k) o et T ey Ty T . adRSN | ~ T R, P : z > e ‘,///;‘./ e ) R )/ Y 5 e % ‘ L f | 20 AL S o, s:{ R \\ o W g ™ }/} o o ¢ '\'-‘“‘ e ' £y ’&;\\ ,f 4 2 -+ :~Jv gl ' & P NN P TN Jet 7Y b ¥ M an RN s %I WY Rt F (7 W/ NS\ ~/7 /.»{w:f;;:} - \ ‘ / ‘,\\ X /,/ ,‘//'/ e .

B these great gatheriogs may be regurded as & national clearing house for the inter | change of idvas on leading in;;wn of ('hp: time. There are other aspects in which they are attractive —the social aspect and the recreatons! aspect. It has become the custom for all Americans who can :\ﬂurd it to induige in a summer outing. The fact that the railroads will make & half-fare excursion rate to Milwaukee for persons coming from any part of the Unjon to attend the National Educational | Association's convention will lead thou sands of peaple to select Milwaukee as the hoadquarters of their approaching va sation. The half-fare rate can be secured | by anyone purchasing a transportation ticket with the associate membership con } pon. From presont indications the convention will be the greatest gathering of educators ‘he world has ever seen. It is expected that at least 20,000 men and \\ns";en in‘erested in education wil attend. The reports receiver from every part of the country tell of a remarkable interest | in the convention, and the :nw:nbliug; of all the brightest minds engaged in the work f education eannot fail to have an important effect on the progress of cduca- i tion in the United States. They will dis- | cuss the problems of pedagogy in the light | of principles and practical experiments, | and each of the educationalists who has | become famous for his discoveries along | certain lines will freely give the others | the benefit of his experience and theories. | The interchange of ideas is expected to give American education an impeius which will accomplish much. From every section of the country will come the greatest minds, who will deliver ! addresses on important educational top-] jcs. For instance, Rev. Lyman Abbott, D. D., pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, and editor of the Outlook, will discuss “The Democracy of Learniug;"i Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, of Washing- | ton, D. C., will talk on “The Education of | the Deaf:” Supt. James M. Greenwood, | of KKansas City, Mo., “Shail American | History Be Taught in Cross Sections nx'l Pasallels?” Supt. Newton C. Douglerty, ‘ ex-president N. K. A., Peoria, IL, “The | Study of History;” Supt. Cartoll G. | Pearse, of Omaha, Neb., “Is the Heart of ’ This People Changed Toward the | Schools?”’ Bishop John H. Vincent, of To- ; peka, Kan., ‘““T'om and His Teacher;” | Dr. Richard (3. Boone, principal of Yp-l silanti normal school, Michigan, *“Lines | of Girowth in Maturing;” "Albert K. Win- , ship, editor of the Journal of Education, Boston, “Kducational leadership;” I)r.’ James M. Green, principal of State nor- ' m#al school, Trenton, N. J., “Data of | Method;” lEdwin A. Alderman, president of University of North Carolina, (,‘-‘hupoll Hill, ‘*“T'he Christian State;” Oscar 'I. Corson, State Commissioner of Common Schools, Ohio, “Extremes in Education;” President William R. Harper, Chicago | University, “Waste in Education;” Gilman H. Tucker, of New York, “Education | from a Publisher's Standpoint;” Mrs. | Bllen M. Henrotin, of Chicago, ‘“The Cooperation of Women's Clubs in the State [

h _'-‘_——“__.—____ and Public Schools;” (linton Scollard, of Clinton, N. Y., poem, “The March of the Ideal;” President James H. Canfield, | Ohio State University, “Winners of Men.” “The Needs of Rural Schools’ will be discusszed in their various phases | by Henry Sabin, State Superintendent | of Public Instruction of Towa; William T, Harris, United States Commissioner of Education; Dr. D. 1.. Kichle, of the University of Minnesota, and Dr. A. E. Hinsdale, of the University of Michigan. Miss Estelle Reel, State Superintendent of Wyoming; Miss Jane Addams, of Fhull House; Prof. James L. Hughes, of Toronto, Canada, will speak upon subjects yet to be announced. OVERRUN WITH TRAMPS. Alarming Increcase Observable in the Great Army of Unem ployed, One of the significant and disquieting evidences of the long-continued depression in industry is the large number of tramps reported in all sections of the country. This is particularly true of the territory east of Chicago., The movement appears to be toward the older States. California and the Rocky Mountain States are no longer favored by tramps. “T'he coast is played out and Colorade is_no better,” is the verdict of the traveéling fraternity. A railrond detective whose business | keeps him on the road between Chicago and Cleveland a large part of the time, stnid that the number of tramps exceeded anything in his recollection. “There are thousands of them,” he said, “and it is not fair to call them tramps, either. The majority of them appear to be mecnanics and laborers out of employment. They drift from one place to another in search of work, and are reduced to the necessity

of riding in box cars and begging food. . The percentage of genuine tramps is (small, though there are apparently large numbers of dangerous men on the road. | As an indication of the straits to which these nmien are reduced, 1 men tell you that only last Wednesday four tramps armed with revolvers held up a box car filed with other tramps near Butler, Ind., and robbed them of what little money they had. No one ever heard of such a | thing before. The number of tramps in the country may be judged from the fact that I counted 197 of them on one freight train that left Grand Crossing last Tues{day night. The average is nearly that bigh, and yon ean readily see that freight conductors and brakemen are net anxious to nndertake the job of throwing them off. The fact is that so long as they keep out of sight in box cars the trainmen let the tramps alone. They are afraid te do anything eise. All the twenty-four roads centering in Chicago have nearly an equal number of tramps to contend swith daily, | With an allowanece of three freight trains | in both directions on each road, the daily exodus will average over 10,000, and the | influx is abont the same number.” |. e L ' DECREASE IN THE PUBLIC DEBT. ?Th(‘ Monthly Statement Shows a Fall | ' of $1,560,000 for May, | The monthly statement of the public debt shows that the debt, less cash in the treasury at the close of business on May 20, 1897, was $996.684,052, -~ decrease for the month of $1.560,080, which is principally accounted for by an increase of ‘over 82,000,600 in cash in the treasury. ;'l‘ho debt, independent of the cash, was increased during the month by $463,215, accounted for in redemption account. ~ The debt is recapitulated as follows: | Interest-bearing debt .........$ 847.365,030 Debt on which interest has ceased since maturity..... 1.348,510 Debt bearing no Interest...... 378,084,324 RORRY Cuaihes L ivaiiaay s B 0 107 NB4 This amount. however, does not include $595,535,953 in certificates and treasury notes offset by an equal amount of cash in the treasury. 'The eash in the treasury is classified as follows: ROIO . i iy va 9181 107 891 Siver o 0 asalviiiln i 819 08 90T PADSE wih Ll e 19T 804 900 Bonds, disbursing officers’ balANOBE, OLO. . . iidiv seiniane 1B 129555 Hotal . ... 0. o 0 SBO7 0B a9 Against this there are demand liabilities outstanding amounting to $637,383,013, leaving a net cash balance in the treasury of $230,113,812. In view of the action of the United States Government through Minister MeKenzie in March last in demanding and obtaining the release of an American sail- | or pamed Ramsey, the Peruvian Government wiil ask for an inquiry into the alleged unjust arrest for vagrancy at Brunswick, Ga., of a Peruvian citizen named Francisco Melina, who is said to have | been ill treated while in prison there. ,

e ———— HIS PRESENCE OF MIND., How a Stage Carpenter Averted a Probable Tragedy., “In time of an emergency,” remarked an elderly man in a group of talkers, “I would rather have presence of mind thar a gun.” “I fancy the gun might do more harm than good if there were no presence of mind with it,” admitted another, “Which reminds me of a story corroborating the wisdom of the first gtatement,” said a third, who on an appeal from the others, continued: “Something like ten or a dozen years ago,” he salq, “I was in a Western town of 10,000 people or so, and it happened that & show was billed for that night. Having nothing to do, and not knowing anybody in town, I took in the show, llt was a barn-storming troupe of Thespians doing a repertoire of blood-and-thunders, and the consequendce was they had nearly a full house. Everything went along very nicely except the peculiar actions of the leading man, who seemed 1o be drunk, or getting that yay very fast, “AS no effert was made by the man- - agement to suppress him, the audience | after a while took a hand and began to hiss. This brought matters to a climax at once, and with an oath the actor stepped to the center of the stage, and whipping out of his clothes a pair of revolvers, he announced to the audience and the people on the stage in the calmest and coolest manner possible that the time had come when somebody had got to die, but that he was not yet decided who it should be. Somebody started at this, but he said that the first person who rose to go out would be shot. Everybody in the house seemed to be paralyzed by the man’'s coolness and nobody moved. 1 know 1 sat well down toward the front, and would have given up my place willingly to anybody who asked for it, but when I looked up at that cold face and those two'guns pointing down my way I preferred to take chances on remaining as 1 was. “IYor at least a minute the actor addressed himself to his trembling audience, and then deliberately selecting a conspicuously white-haired man in the vary center of the house, he commanded him to rise and be shot. Otherwise he would shoot promiscuously into the crowd, At this point in the proceedIngs, 1 am willing to state witkout bias that I never was in the midst of so much suppressed excitement. For a second the house was as still as death, and then as the white-haired man began to twist about as if he were going to obey the actor’'s command, a woman shricked, and as a half dozen followed suit and fainted the actor suddenly disappeared from the stage, nobody knew where, but he was gone and the panle was averted, though everybody maden breake-to-pet--out as fast as possible, b The curtain went down quick then, and the manager, white and scared, came out and announced that the actor had gone crazy over the loss of his wife, and that thanks to the presence of mind of the stage carpenter, that gentleman had hurried under the stage and pulled the trap on which, fortunately, the crazy man stood. The fall had rendered him Lielpless, and he was then waiting at the stage door to be taken away by the authorities. “Which proves what I said in the first place,” said the elderly man with an alr of pride, and the proof was accepted, A New Scientific Wonder, FFor a long time a New York professor of physics has been experimenting with a method, now at length perfected, of making pictures of musical sounds by means of the camera. Such perfect results are obtained that the voice of a tenor or soprano can be judged with absolute accuracy as to its quality and range without hearing it—merely by inspecting a series of photographs. In the near future the members of a choir or opera company will be selected by the committee on musie from the volece photographs submitted by the various candidates. The professor promrises to photograph a large number of the finest voices obtainable; also, to get as many more photographs of poor voices. By a comparative study of the two series he expects to be able to reduce the peculiarities of a good volice to a basis of scientific understanding, ! The Greatest Bore. ’ Every man is, after all, his own hardest taskmaster, his own most monot- / onous company. With an ordinary«;.q bore, who calls only now and then, he can make shift to get along, but with a bore who goes to bed with him, gets up with him, breakfasts, lunches and dines with him, and is forever repeating the old chestnut story of what a fool and a failure and a slnner he has been, is now, and will keep on being to the end of the chapter—why, with all this It is a very different matter. Such a bore is each man in peril of becoming to himself. How Bhe Fixed It, Confidential Friend (to young wife)— Your husband must have the best of tempers; you have been more than an hour dressing to go out with him and he has not once called out to ask if you are ready. Young Wife—Oh! I always hide his gloves, cigar case and spectacles before I commence dressing; then, when I am dressed, I fird them for him and he apologizes for having kept me waiting. It'sa very effective plan, my dear, and I recommend it as a peacemaker.— New York Tribune. 2 Irony of Fate. Bobbias had been studying his dear, old grandfather’'s wrinkled face for a long time. “Well, Bob,” said the old gentleman, “do you like my face?” “Yes, grandpa,” said Bobbie, “it’'s an awfully nice face. But why don't you bave it ironed ?"—Trifles, ;