Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 23 March 1882 — Page 2

CONDEMNED.

C«ntinH€d From First Page.

kim with trembling, uplifted bands, ana was again seized in his strong arms. *The rhild, you will not hurt my child!" Bhe shrieked, as he drew a

dagger

Madeleine flung herself before him. He tried to push her away but, falling on her knees, she caught his hands with frenzied energy. "Oh, no, you will not hurt my baby, my. ooly one! You cannot be so wicked." •Then say to her, 'Go to sleep, my child I am with your father.'" "Oh, no, you cannot mean it!" cried Madeleine, horror-stricken at the idea, i. "Then I will quiet her." 'i "Stay, stay. May God forgive me I will say it." "Be quick, then!" he |cried, eagerly Watching poor Madeleine's efforts to form the lie with her trembling lips. Twice, thrice she tried to speak but no sound came, only a long, gasping sigh. "Mammal mamma! Oh, mamma, come!"

The cry broke the spell. Madeleine sprang to her feet, crying, in hoarse, forced tones: "Go to sleep, my child. I am with your father?'

The little feet were heard pattering on the hard floor then all was still. Madeleine sat, half-lainting, on her low chair, terrified at the sound of her own words, and the robber carefully emptied a deep pocket in his coat, and secured Madeleine's box in the depths. That done, he again approached his trembling victim. "You have lived in the Chateau d'Aubretot "I have," Madeleine faltered. "There are valuables concealed there. Vhich room are they in?" "I do not know." I "Will you swear it?" «v„„» "How long is it since you lived there?" "Si* years." -•You know which room they were kept in then?" "That has nothing to do with the place they may be in now," said Madeleine, boldly. "The chateau is well guarded you have everything now worth stealing in the place. Go away." "Not till you tell me what I want to know. They are making preparations for some great event at the chateau. I was in the grounds n6t long ago. There is a long suite of rooms to the right of the entrance-hall they are hung with pink, and look as if ready for the comfort of a rich, invalid ladyj perhaps, in one of them

Madeleine dropped her face in her hands, lest he should read in her trembling features what her tongue refused to ntter. "Well, in which? There is a large quantity of plate laid away in a closet which is sunk in the wall. The door opens with a spring, the secret ot which I have learned but you can tell me in which room the closet is. The family jewels, in their ebony cases, are also here, and they are what I want. Come, you shall tell me!" "Never!" cried Madeleine. "You are a strong man, and now a rich one, and have beggared us. Take your plunder, and leave mc." "Quick, answer me the jewel room, which is it?"

He raised his dagger as he spoke. "Have pity, and leave me." '•The room—which is it? Tell mc!" "Never! You can kill me but you cannot make me betray my benefactors." "Then die for your obstinacy!" he cried, plunging the dagger into her heart.

With one low moan, Madeleine fell backward on the floor. The murderer stood for a second gazing at his work then, with a cry of horror, he pushed back the bolt, opened the door, and rushed down the pathway and out of the gate.

The lovely May moon soon threw its soft, silvery beams over the quiet cottage, and, quivering through the windows, shone on the motionless form, struck down in its full strength and beauty.

Adrienne slumbered through the dark hours, but the sunlight streaming over her pillow disturbed her, and she awoke with a start, sitting up and calling "Mamma!" with all the strength she had.

There was no reply. Adrienne burst into tears, then examined her dress, which had not been changed for the little white wrapper, lying, as Madeleine had folded it, near her pillow. The child grew frightened, and again tried to open the door, but in vain. Then she cnied, and called

"Mamma!" till she was exhausted. Suddenly the sound of distant firing broke on her ears. The cannonade had commenced. It was a repetition of the terrible noise of yesterday. Thoroughly frightened, Adrienne covered her head in the blankets, and sobbed with terror.

Hours passed, the villagers were all on the alert for stragglers who would bring news from the front. Household duties were done between animated discussions as to the number engaged, the probable presence of Marshal de Saxe with the troops, and the chances of a victory for the French arms.

Aboat nine o'clock Marie Meyer began to wonder what Madeleine was so busy about, that she did not join the gossips at their doors, or in the road. At length, when ten o'clock struck from numerous clocks in the neighborhood, she could no longer restrain her curiosity, but, leaving

-"j-

from

bis breast, and pointed to the door. •'Then give me the key!" Madeleine drew ihe key from her pocket and offered it to the robber. "Will you stay where you are?" he •eked threateningly.

She bowed her h'ead, unable to speak. The man approached the cupboard, and was slowly fitting the keys. "Mamma! mamma!" cried the childish voice, in louder tones. "That child is too noisy. She will ruin all," cried the man, striding toward the door.

iiasiiss

ner ennaren, ana caiung to ner nearest neighbor to join her, started for the cottage, followed by Annette Despard.

The open door invited them to enter. Then the two women uttered a cry of horror, and hurried to the quiet figure, neither supposing Madeleine to be dead, bat rather fearing that fright had brought on a fainting-fit.

The wound was deep and narrow, having been made by a small, sharp dagger, and bad not bled much. The face of the dead woman was peaceful, almost smiling. Her hands were still clasped as if in prayer for mercy on her murderer.

Sick with horror, the two women sank on their knees and stared blankly at each other. "She is dead! Madeleine is dead!" they said. "Who—who could have done this?" "And the child! My God! the child!" cried Annette, springing to the door of the sleeping-room. "Why, it is bolted on this side!

As if touched by an electric flash, Adrienne rose, her little face beaming with the natural sequence of the ideas, her little hand raised as if to command attention. ••Then, where is papa?" "Heaven knows perhaps in Paris, but more likely at Fontenoy." "Is he gone, gone away? He put me to sleep last night," said Adrienne, unheeding.

There was a low murmur of pity. ••The child is losing her reason," said Marie Meyer. "Ask her what she means," said Aglae Leroux. "She does not look at all crazy." "See, mamma stayed with papa, and did not put me to bed. I have my dress on still, and he had his supper with us and I did not want to go to bed, and he Baid I imist, because ho had something to tell mamma." At the word, her little face contracted, and she began to kiss and call her mother by every pet name that Madeleine was wont to address to her.

A frightful foreboding of a horror too great for words was creeping over the group. They glanced around the table was laid, certainly, with plates and utensils for three, and Jean's great mug, out of which they had often seen him drink hi3 cider, stood near one plate.

Martin Despard hazarded a question: "Adrienne when did papa come?" "It was dark I watched for him all the afternoon then mamma cried because he did not come, aiul then he came. I knew he would, because the other man

Aglae Leroux prut her arms around the little figure, and gently took her on her knees. "Tell us, Adrienne, what did mamma say when she put you to bed?" "She did not I was with papa I sat on his knee, and we h'ad supper." *j, "Yes and then you fell asleep and they put you to bed, and you heard

"And did

Jtoi

Oh!

Marie, Marie, what can have happened here? And we heard notbingl" "Go for help, Annette call in some of the men. Something must be done at once!"

Marie brought a pillow from the high bed, and gently placed the dead woman's head upon it then growing courageous with action, she drew back the bolt and looked into the next room.' Adrienne lay sleeping, her cheeks stained with tears, her golden curls falling over her forehead. Marie was hesitating whether to waken her suddenly, when the approaching steps and voices saved her the trouble. Adrienne opened her eyes as the people crowded into the cottage, and jumping from the bed, ran out into the large room, not heeding Marie's "Wait, wait, Adrienne!"

The child knelt beside her mother, the awe-stricken group watching her, no one daring to break the terrible stillness. "Mamma! mamma! Speak to me, mamma!

Oil,

why did you not come to me?"

She tried to open the marble eyelids with her little hands, and failing, began to kiss the cold lips. "What is the matter with my mamma?" she cried at last, rising and looking aboujt her. "Oh, Adrienne, my child, your poor mamma is dead," Baid Marie Meyer, her voice breaking into sobs.

The words fell meaningless on the child's ears. Adrienne only knew of life. "Dead," she repeated again, sitting down by the body. "What is dead? Can she not speak "Adrienne, your mother will never speak to you again she is dead, my child, dead!"

4was

here." "The other man?" said several voices. "Yes he had some soup and omelet he was hurt, too, and tired and then mamma brought water and linen for his leg, and then he went away." "Who was he?'* asked Marie Meyer, recollections of Jean's old jealousies forcing themselves on her burning brain. She began to trace causes and effects, yet feared to put her thoughts into words. "What was his name?" she said, seeing Adriense's puzzled expression. "I do not know—he had a coat like papa's." "Good Heavens! no doubt it was Victor Ponson! That is it! Jean was always jealous of him "Hush, Marie! do not put words in the child's mouth. Let us listen to her no doubt she knows more," said Martin, gravely.

nothu.g

more?" said Aglae, soothingly. "Yes, I heard the noise, and mamma calling out. It wakened me. Then I knocked and called to mamma to come to me, and she—she could not come," sobbed Adrienne, as her fright and misery came back to her. "Poor little thing! Pd6r Madeleine! Oh, this is too terrible!" cried Marie Meyer, kneeling by her dead friend. "Oh, my poor child, how often have I told and warned you of men's fearful passions,'* "Mamma screamed like that and then I went and knocked again, and she said

Adrienne stopped as if to recall the

words. "Yes, yc§. Go on! What did she say f' "Go to sleep, my child I am with your father." There was an unconscious imitation in the slow tones.

1 ff

i-P- yK

THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY GAZETTE.

b) S]enk

to you again?"

"No, nr\ 1 cried, but 6he never spoke, never came. Ob. where is papa?" A heavy liooming of gnns seemed to answer the iteous cry. "It will be a mercy if he never comes back," said Martin, with a glance about the room. "My friends, let tis pray that he may meet a soldiers death this day. We must do our duty. The

Procureur-du-

must be informed of the murder. Who will go?" Several volunteered to g-o {ogelhcr, and soon started for Montagne. The hours crept slowly away. The women having arranged the cottage, and prepared the body of their unfortunate neighbor for the grave, sat near it in little groups, and with suppressed, horror-stricken voices, discussed the child's temble story. To add to the gloom and mystery of the scene came the founds of musketry and guns from the di.-tant battle field, and Adrienne's grief, as the moments passed and her moMier did not waken and speak to her, was sad to witness.

The srticsch.il from the village of Montagne n-rived at the cottage toward dusk. Having made a rapid survey of the cottage, ami decided that nothing had been tampered wit li, he announced his intention of taking Adrietino to the battle field, and there confronting the guilty man with his accuser.

The women were shocked at this proposal, but the officer was obdurate. "It must be done!" he exclaimed. "The wretch may try to escape." ••Hut the danger of going?" said Marie. ••There is none now. The victory is curs. Fontenoy was won to-day. and the king will at once return to Paris and take his regiment with him. There is no time to be lost. The man can easily deny it if the child is not heard while the event is dear in her mind." •Then I will go and carry the little one," said Marie. "She will

riot

feel frightened

if I am with her.' Adrienne was quite ready to go and sec her father, and the small party, late as it was. set out for Fontenoy.

Over the little hills and across ihe sofl meadows, which Jean had so quickly cleared the previous evening, they slowly made their way. Sometimes quickening their steps, and again stopping to rest, they at last came in sight of the field, and were shown the camp of the regiment to which Jean belonged.

CT1APTBB IV.

i,, THB KIKG'S OWN.

Quite a different scene was going on in front of the colonel's tent. That officer had called his men together to announce the result of the day's fighting, and to compliment them for their brave conduct and noble deeds. It was an old story with the regiment Fontenoy was but another blossom added to their crown. Colonel D'Aubretot, had not, however, finished his little speech.

"I am told," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking proudly at the attentive ranks, "that a member of this regiment has again distinguished himself personally. During the final charge on the English center, when our men were swept down by hundreds, this man came out 2of the struggle carrying an English flag. Le4 him present himself."

There was an opening made in the ranks, and a tall man, holding a discolored flag, advanced in front of the small group of officers. It was Jean Renaud. A shout v.*ent up when he was recognized.

Colonel d'Aubretot received the flag, and spoke aloud to the listening guards. "Jean Renaud, I accept this, and thank you in the name of His Majesty Louis

XY.

The king shall hear of it without delay, and will, no doubt., reward you lor the courage and fidelity you have shown in his service."

Another shout for the king, and still another for Jean Renaud, applauded the colonel's speech, and then the men were dismissed.

Like most deserving persons, Jean Re nand had no words with which to thank his comrades. Colonel D'Aubretot, however, called hitn aside, and in a low voice congratulated him on his achievement. "There is no doubt, Jean, but that you will have your promotion now. The king will take an interst in your advancement. The countess will be delighted when she hears of this brave deed. I shall take great pleasure in describing this scene to her."

The colonel pressed the soldier's hand, and then returned to his tent. Jean was now surrounded by an excited crowd, all eager to hear the particulars of the capture. Scattered here and there on the camp grounds, the men related the experience of the day. It was a lovely scene. The "Kings Own" had raised their tents on a little eminence that commanded a fine view of the field. In front stretched the line of redoubts, now broken and penetrated by the desperate charges of the English during the afternoon, and, beyond that again, the declivity down which the Irish brigade had pursued the flying enemy, and won a victory for their almost exhausted allies. -...

A full account of the Irish charge was being noisily given to a little group of the (raards by a tall looking man, who, although wearing the same uniform, spoke with a decidedly Irish accent. "And what were you doing in the Irish Brigade?" asked Jacques Latour, in evident surprise. ."I thought yon belonged to us." "Well, and so I do. But, you see, we were on the retreat, and just then I heard the Irish cry as the brigade came marching up the hill. Sure, yon wouldn't have me see the boys winning everything before them, and not have a hand in I turned back, and we soon had the redcoats running before us." "But, O'Rourke, how did yon get back? I saw you on a horse," said one of the men, laughing at the recollection. "Why, I got lost in the smoke, do you see, and I didn't know which way to turn. Just then I heard the colonel callincr out

to me. u'KourKe,' says ne, 'get up behind,' pays be. 'Faith I will.' says I 'and sure he brought me safe back to the regiment. He saved my life, and now he can have me to take care of for the rest ofjny days."

There was a general laugh, and a proposition to drink the colonel's health, which was accepted, and the men sauntered off toward a distant tent. Renaud did not follow them. Throwing himself on the ground, near one of the fires, he gave himself np to dream of home and happiness. Physically worn oat after the long day's struggle, it was sweet to lie quiet and reflect on what might follow the day's well-performed duties.

Promotion would be welcome and gratifying to his ambition but he had long looked forward to getting bis discharge from the regiment, and settling down to a quiet life and tilling bis own ground. The three hundred gold

louis

was a little

fortune, and, properly handled, would increase his small possessions beyond his wildest hopes. Then he thought of Madeleine, her unusual depression on the previous evening, and the lingering farewell on the hill where he had left her. Meanwhile, Colonel d'Aubretot had been disturbed by the entrance of the guard, fend the information that a stranger desired to speak with him.

Several of his officers were in tbe tent all had been discussing the hard-won victory. Colonel d'Aubretot invited them to remain and in a few minutes tbe seneschal entered. The man's appearance indicated that something of an unpleasant nature had occurred, and Colonel d'Aubretot grew uneasy. "Well, air," he said, "you wish to speak to me f' "You are the Colonel of the 'King's Ownf" "I have the honor of commanding that regiment," was the answer, proudly spoken. "You have a private in 'your regiment, Jean Renaud said the seneschal, feeling his task growing momentarily more difficult. "Yes, sir a braver soldier never carried arms. Jean Renaud has just won honorable mention, and, no doubt, will receive promotion to-day. He captured an English flag." "And is he unhurt?" 8' '-iAt jssr^i "Yes, thank Heaven! We could hardly spare such a man from our ranks."

The seneschal looked grave, -r. "I am sorry, then, deeply sorry, to be the bearer of bad news. Madeleine Renaud was murdered last night, in her own cottage and circumstances point strongly to her husband as the perpetrator of the crime." "It is an absurdity, any such charge! Besides, yon are accusing Jean Renaud of a very serious fault—that of being absent from duty without leave, and in tbe presence of the enemy. However, his captain is here." i,

Colonel d'Aubretot turned to an officer who sat near him. "Captain Thibaut, was Renaud absent from the company at any time yesterday afternoon or evening?" "No, sir. We were sent out to bring in the wounded, after the skirmish, and it was quite late and very dark when we returned. Renaud anewered at roll-call. He could not have been absent without being missed. This gentleman must be mistaken. Some robber or camp-follower has probably entered the cottage, and being discovered, committed the deed." "Nevertheless," said the seneschal,with a glance at the officers, "there is a witness who says that Jean Renaud did the murder." "Who is that?" asked Colonel d'Aubretot. ... "His own child." "Great Heaven!" was tbe exclamation from all the listeners. "His own child! Where is she?" asked the colonel, now thoroughly aroused. "Outside. I brought her with me." "Gentlemen, we will hear what the child has to say. The thing had better le fully investigated, on Renaud's account. I do not believe one word of it!"

The officers left the tent for the clear space in front, where Marie, holding Adrienne in her arms, stood gazing at the bright scene. The bivouac fires were blazing like great gems over the surrounding, fields: figures in picturesque dresses and graceful attitudes, enlivened the landscape sounds of laughter, mingled with snatches of gay songs, floated from the distant tents, and the quiet sentries purBued their monotonous walk, like white ghosts coming and going in the silent night.

The colonel patted Adrienne's golden curls, to reassure her but the child looked about h£r fearlessly, and with eagerness, as if in search of some familiar! object. .. "Well, my child, do yon like to look at soldiers?" "Yes, sir. Shall I see papa?* "Presently tell me, if you remember, my child, when did yon see papa?"

"Last night."

"Are you quite Wr5, Adrienne "Ob, yes. Papa came last night to Bee pamma and me." "You see, sir," said tho seneschal, "the child is quite clear in her answers." "Summon Jean Renaud. He mnst have an opportunity to explain this circumstance. Let his company come with him and take the child out of sight for a few minutes."

Marie stepped into the tent with Adrienne, and in a few minutes, Renaud, called from his day-dreams, approached the officers, followed by Jacques Latour, Denis O'Rourke, and a number of other comrades, all of whom, suspecting trouble at the sight of the seneschal, were anxious to learn what Jean Renaud could possibly have to do with the matter.

Colonel d'Aubretot had become grave, and his voice had a solemn ring in it as he spoke to Jean Renaud. "1 want to ask you a few questions, Renaud. When did yon part from your wife?" "Two months ago, sir just before I joined the regiment for active service."

Renaud answered quickly but the grav

ity of the colonel's manner, and tbe peculiar expression of the faces watching his, informed him that he was the object of unusual interest. "Have yon seen your wife since then, Renaud

There was a pause, terrible in its effect, though it lasted but for a moment, then came the steady answer: "I saw her last night." "gn "Captain Thibaut, this is growing serious. Will you take down the questions and answers Yon say, Renaud, that yon saw your wife last night. How did you come to forget your duty as a soldier?"

did my duty, colonel the captain knows that I was at my poet through the day, and I was present at roll-call in the evening.'* "But yon admit that yon absented your* self without leave.H "I did, just while I went home, kissed my wife and child, and left with Madeleine a Bacred trust that had been confided to me on the field." "A sacred trust! Explairi* ydfihself." "On our return, after searching for the wounded. I found a man dying on the field. He asked me to take, charge of some papers and jewels that he had with him, and he gave me a purse containing three hundred gold louis for myself, as a reward for carrying out his instructions. Not knowing what might happen to me during the coming battle, I judged it best to take them home and leave them with Madeline." "Did the man tell you his name?" "Yes, colonel. He said he was the Count de Mornasse." "De Mornasse! That is strange the family is a proscribed one. and the two men who represented it were exiled." "Those were his words, colonel. The papers were valuable ones—title deeds— and the jewels were magnificent." "Well, Jean, I will consider that charge against you hereafter. Another and a more serious one remains to be explained." "Another! I do not know of anything else to be charged against me." "Renaud, a terrible event has happened in your house." "In my house

Jean Renaud gazed around him at his startled comrades, as if seeking from them support and comfort. He met only interest in their earnest features. Then, brave man as he was, he had to control bimeelf with an effort, as he asked: "What has happened "Your wife has been murdered!" "Murdei-ed!"

The cry was echoed by several voices. Jean Renaud staggered under the blow thus dealt him, and would have fallen but for O'Rourke, who quickly caught him and supported him. "Be a man, Jean," he whispered. v/'-J

Renaud seemed unable to grasp the meaning of the words be had heard. "Murdered t" he repeated. "Madeleine dead? Why, only last night I left her in perfect health and beauty 1 There must be some mistake!" •'There is none your wife was dead this morning when the neighbors entered your house," said the seneschal. "Then the house has been robbed! Some wretch has done this! Ob! Madeleine, my wife!" "Was there any sign of a robber about the place?" asked Colonel d'Aubretot, anxious to accept Jean's theory of the murder. "None whatever. Not a door open, not a lock broken. Everything was in order." "Yon hear, Renand?"

But Renaud seemed utterly crushed by the horror of his wife's death. The men drew around him, some pressing his hand, others whispering of courage and hope.

Colonel d'Aubretot watched the man's grief for some minutes, doubting his own ability to push the investigation any further. There was no possibility of doubting Renaud's sincerity of sorrow. Still, a man might do in a passion what he would bitterly regret the next minute, and this was probably the case with the brave soldier before him. Colonel d'Aubretot nerved himself for his painful duty. "Renaud, do you know on whom tbe suspicion of this crime rests?" "Alas! colonel, how should I? "It is placed on you." "On me!" Renaud burst into a wild fit of laughter. "Yes, on you, Renaud. Your well-known jealousy, your repeated quarrels on this subject, so well understood by the neighbors, have led them to suspect you." "Oh, colonel, is not my grief now hard enough to bear without adding this frightful charge to it! What did our quarrels amount to? We loved each other. Only last night she clung around my neck and kissed me, as if—as if it would be for the last time. I knew she was depressed—it must have been a presentiment of what was to come. Ob, it is horrible to accuse meoftbis! I, a soldier I, who have faced death on the field and never feared it, to say that I would strike a woman, and she the mother of my child. It is too monstrous, no one would believe it." "No, Jean, there is not a man in the regiment who would believe it," eaid O'Rourke, pressing bis friend's hand, and trying to encourage him to regain his selfcontrol. "Renaud, I wish I conld believe you. Unfortunately, there is a witness, one who will not be accused of falsehood, and who persists in accusing you." "A witness!" cried Renaud, starting forward. "Yes. Your own child "Oh, my God! It is imponail4e. I left her sleeping." "You shall bear her story from her own ljpe." "What, is Adi-ienne here "Yea, but stand to one side. She must not see you until she has told what she saw and heard." "The child saw nothing, beard nothing, that I should fear her telling!" cried Jean, excitedly. "That will appear. Ton must listen without interrupting her. Afterward,

Kenand, yon will be given a cnance confirm or deny what she says/' Renaud took a few steps backward, and stood motionless. His tall figure was bent as if years bad passed over him within a few minutes. His nervous hands clutched his belt and side-arms the muscles of his strong face were slowly settling down into a rigid, stony expression, and denoted crashing sorrow and utter despair.

The man felt that fate was against him,, enfolding him like an iron vise. [The continuation of this rimarkable story can be found in the Weekly and Saturday issues of tbe G/ ZBTTS. Bee numbers csnbeobtainrd at this* ffice. 1

The Cat. [Temple Bar.J

-The cat is frankly, tindisgnisedly selfish there is no denying that. It lives for self, and compasses its ends withou^ scruples, patient to wait, skillful to feign and scheme, and utterly pitiless and unrelenting. But should sportsmen be very severe on the creature that evidently enjoys with a gusto keen as their own the pursuit of the hapless prey which it hunts and toys with, often as much for diversion as for hunger? One hopes for the sake of the sportive birds and heedless mice, which it fascinates with basilisk eyes and captures with cruel paw, that there may be some occult provision of nature to disarm their fate of its terrors.

Perhaps the theory propounded by Dr. Livingstone when he records his feelings while in the lion's clutch—that tbe Reusations of tho prey are rather pleasing than otherwise—may be true. We hope so, but it must be confessed that appearances are not in its favor.

In early youth cat-nature appears at its best. Once having emerged from the puling, sightless stage of its first nine days, the kitten becomes a winsome and attractive creature. "Cat-like" is a reproachful epithet aptly applied to women of the Becky bliarp type but it is not considered derogatory to the most fascinating girl to be credited with kitten-like ways—for the kitten is tin embodiment of playfulness and grace.

The cruel instincts of its tribe are not, however, slow to assert themselves, and it is comical to hear the mimic growl of" puny thunder with which the tiny creature gloata over its first mouse.

In the pages of fable, Puss has ever figured largely but rarelv after a flattering raanuer. His guile and subtlety form the salient points in the representations and his character is painted akin to that of Master Reynard, tne master of craft. He is depicted as a demure hypocrite, a false hermit a deceitful counselor, the ensnarer of the unwary, the ally of wizards and witches. Bats in council debate vainly how to baffle him. It is hopeless, they find, to dream of "belling the cat" Noiseless himself on his gloved feet, his keen ear is not to be caught napping.

•l#

An Old Story. (Quincy Modern ArgoJ'

Perhaps it has been printed before, perhaps it has not. We give it as told to an Argo representative by one of those monuments of truth—a commercial traveler. The occurrence is said to have taken place away back in the good old days of our forefathers. When Davy Crockett was in Washington he was one day sitting in a hotel toasting his shin? when a Senator from Massachusetts entered. Approaching the old frontiersman the latter said: "Crockett, a large procession of your constituents are marching up the street. You ought to go out and greet them

Crockett hurriedly arose and went out upon the hotel steps, when a large drove of mules passing by caught his eye. He quietly watched them until the last one had passed and then returned to his seat by the stove. The Massachusetts Senator was still there, and as tho redoubtable Davy dropped into his chair asked: "Well, did you see your friends?" "Oli yes," was the response. "They iook remarkably well, too. "Did you ascertain their destination?" "Certianly, sir." "And where are they goiug in such solid body 7"

Crockett turned to the Senator with a quiet, calm expression and replied: "The d—d fools are all going down to Massachusetts to teach school!"

And then they gazed a moment into each other's faces and sadly walked up to exercise the barkeeper a while.

A Rude Man. [London World.] &

A country cousin writes: "A short time ago I was staring at the lovely diar monds and beautiful things in a shop window in Regent street, (not covetously, as I am content to see others wear them) when a man came and stood close by my side.

I don't understand why men should 3peak to me in the street, because I am sure I look the model of stout, British matronly respectability.

But they ao sometimes and this man remarked how pretty the stones were, and edged up close, and suggested that I might like diamonds. I said frankly I did. He said he should like to buy me something. I said how kind. What did I want, he asked. 'Oh, I said, "there are so many things but let metbink.

Now what is it I want most? Why,, tome new shoes, stockings, flannel petticoats, a scrubbing-brush for the kitchen, two saucepans, and three loads of manure for the garden. Oh, I do so want the manure, because it's getting late for mulching.' That rude man positively turned away, saying something unmentionable, it was so very rude, when be had asked me what I should likL and I had told him quite the truth."

^"What a blessing it is," said a hard working Irishman, "that night niver comes on till late in the day, when a man is tised and can't work any more at alLatalL"-