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The Advocate, 1887-06-30, Page 2Canein• A tramp went pp to a cottage deer 'Fo beg fur a coaPle ditheA or there.. The Pottage doer was opened wide, So be took e Oftutietis loek tesiele, Then over his features there spread grip As he Paw a lonelY maid Within., A lonely maid within the gloom Ot the shAdiest Part et A PhadY reoln. Into the room the tramper went; Over a flog that Maiden Pent. Flis eyes were set and full of fire, And he viewed the trsMP with,evident "Run ;or yourlifel" the maiden cried; I clean forgot to have him tied 1" "Bun for your life through yonder door - 1 cannot hold him a Minute more!" Without a word he tamed his face And leaped the fence with careless grace, Then lightly along the road he ran— .A very-innell-put-out Young Man. The maiden loosed her bulldog's neck And gazed at the tramp—a vanishing sPeeh- Aud peal after peal of laughter rent The air with the maiden's merriment. The dog was of terra-cotta ware— She won him that week at a lottery fair. Eva Best in Detroit Free Bress. SIR HUGH'S LOVES. CHAPTER IV. WREN WE TWO PARTED. Nay—sometimes seems it I could even boar To lay down humbly this love -crown I wear, Steal frona my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor, And see another queen it at the door— If only that the king had done no wrong, If this my palace whereI lived so ioug Were not defiled by falsehood entering in. There is no loss but change; no death but sin; No parting, save the slow corrupting pain Of murdered faith that never lives again. Miss Mulock. The following evening Margaret walked down the narrow path leading to the shore. It was a glorious evening, warm with the ` dying sunset, gorgeous with red and golden Broad margins of yellow sands, white headlands, mossy cliffs with the scarlet poppies and pink -eyed convolvuli growing out of the weedy crevices; above, a blue ineffable sky scored •deeply with tinted clouds. and a sea dipping on the shore with a long ,low ripple of sound; under a boulder a child bathing her feet in a little runlet of a pool, while all round, heaped up with oarse wavy grasses, lsy seaweed—brown, coral - line, and purple—their salty fragrance .• believe it would be a sin to marry me. My darling, what nonsense; know all abo0 your poor mother—many families have this sort of thing ; do you think that ever keeps people trona merrying ? If we had known before, as I told my father; well, it might have made a difference, bet now it is too late, nothing would ever induce me to give you up, Margsret ; in my eyes you are already as bound to me as thoegh you were my wife. My father has nothing to do with it—this is between you and mel" " Hugh, listen to ine ; I have promised Sir Wilfred that I will never naarry you." Then your promise must be null and void; you are mine and I claim you, Margaret." "No, no!" she returned, shrinking from him; "1 will never be any man's wife I have told Baby so, and he says I am right." "Margaret, are you mad to say such things to me ? I am not a patient man, and you are trying me too much," and Hugh's eyes flashed angrily. "Do you want me to doubt your Jove?" "Do not make it too hard for me," she pleaded. "Do you think this costs me nothing—that I do not suffer too? you will not be cruel to me, Hugh, because I am obliged to make you unhappy. It is not I, but the Divine Will that has inter- posed this barrier to our union. Ah, if Baby or I had but known, all this would have been spared you." "It is too late," returned Hugh gloomily; "you have no longer the right to dispose of yourself, you are mine—how often am I to tell you that? Do you think that I will ever consent to resign you, that I could live my life without you? What do I care about your mother? such things happen again and again in fitmilies, and no one thinks of them. If I am willing to abide by the consequences, no one else has a right to object." Poor Hugh 1 he was growing more sore and angry every moment. He had antici- pated some trouble from Margaret's inter- view with his father; be knew her scrupu- lous'conscience, and feared that a long and weary argument might be before him, but he had never really doubted the result Life without Margaret would be simply insup. portable; he could not grasp the idea for a moment. Margaret—his Margaret—refuse to be his wife 1 His whole impetuous nature rose against such a cruel sentence—neither God nor man had decreed it; it was unreasonable, untrue, to suppose such a thing. How could he think of the conse- steemng the air; everywhere the sound ? quences to his unborn children, of the good of cool splashes and a murmur of peace. I, of future generations of Redmonds, when he could hear nothing but the voice of his passion that told him no other woman would be to him like Margaret? The news had indeed been a shock to him, but as he had told his father, nothing should prevent his marrying Margaret. But he little knew the woman with whose will he had to cope. Margaret's very love for him gave her strength to resist—besides she could not look at things from Hugh's point of view. If she had married him she would never have known a moment's peace. If she had had children and they had died, she would have regarded their death as a punishment. She would have seen retributive justice in every trouble that came upon them, till she must have pined and withered in her remorse. But she would never marry him. In that calm, loving heart there was a fund of strength and endurance truly marvellous. In her spirit of self-sacrifice she belonged to the noble army of women of whose ranks the protomartyr, Mary of Nazareth, was first and chief; who can endure to suffer and to see their beloved suer; who can thrust, uncomplainingly, the right hand, if need be, into the purifying flame, and so go through life halt or maimed, so that their garments may be always white and stainless. And so looking upon him whotn she loved, she gave him up for ever; and Hugh's anguish and despair failed to shake her resolution. The Divine Will had for- bidden their union; she had promised his father that she would never marry him ; she had vowed in last night's bitter conflict never to be the wife of any man. This was what she told him, over and over again, and each time there was a set look about her beautiful mouth that told Hugh that there was no hope for him. He came to believe it of 'last; and then his heart was very bitter against her. He said to himself, and then aloud—for in his angry passion he did not apare her, and his hard words bruised her gentle soul most pitilessly; he said that She did not _Mize him, that he never had, that that cold, pure soul of hers was incapable of passion; and he wondered with an intolerable anguish of anger whether she -would suffer if he took her at heA word and married another; and when he had flung these cruel words at her —for he was half maddened with misery— he had turned away from her with a groan and had hidden his head in his hands. His wishes had ceased to influence her; she had given him up; she would never be his wife, and all the sunshine and promise of his youth seemed dimmed. But Margaret would not leave him like this; the next moment she was kneel. tag beside him on the sand. They say there is always something of the maternal element in thelove of a good woman; and there is something of this protecting tender- ness in Margaret's heart as she drew Hugh's head to her shoulder. He did not resist her; the first fierceness of his anger had now died out, and only the bitterness of his despair remained. "Hugh, before we part to -night, will you not tell me that you forgive me?" "How am I to tell you that," he answered in a dull weary voice, "when you are rob- bing my life of its happiness?" "Oh, Hugh, when I loved you." "You are proving your love"—with the utmost bitterness; but she answered him with the same gentleness. "You are still angry with me. Well, I must boar your auger; it will only make it all a little harder for me. If you could have said a word that wmild have helped me to bear it—but no—you are too unhappy : by and by you will do me justice." "I am not a saint like yoti," he anewered harshly; "1 have a. man's feelings. -Yon have often told me I am passionate and wilful—well, you were right. "Yea, you were always wilful, Hugh, but you have never been cruel to me before ; it I'S cruel to doubt my love because my duty compels me to give you up. Ah," with a The child sat under the boulder alone, ° a small brown creature in picturesque - looking rags, a mere waif and stray of a child, with her feet trailing in the pool ; every now and then small mottled crabs scrambled crookedly along, or dug graves f or themselves in the dry waved sand. The girl watched them idly, as she flapped long ribbons of brown seaweed, or d:ibbled the water though her hollowed hands, while a tired sea -gull that had lowered wing was skimming slowly along the margin of the water. Another time Margaret would have paused to speak to the little waif of human- ity before her, for she was a lover of chil- iren, and was never happier than when surrounded by these little creatures—the very babies crowed a welcome to her from their mothers' arms, but this evening Margaret's eyes had a strange unseeing look inthem ; they were searching the winding shore for some expected object, and she scarcely seemed to notice the little one at her play. Only four -and -twenty hours had passed since Sir Wilfred had paid that ill-omened visit to the Grange, and yet, some subtle mysterious change had passed over Mar- garet. It was as though some blighting influence had swept over her; her face was pale, and her eyes were swollen and dim as though with a night's weeping, and the firm beautiful mouth was tremulous with pain. "1 thought I should have met him by now,"she murmured; "I am nearly at the boathouse; surely Sir Wilfred must have given him my message." But the doubt had hardly crossed her mind before a tall figure turned the corner by the lonely boat- house, and the next moment Hugh was coming towards her. " Margaret!" he exclaimed, as he caught eold of her outstretched hands, "what does his mean? whylave you kept me away f rom you all these hours, and then appointed this solita.ry place for our meeting?"Then as she did not answer, and he looked at her more closely, his voice changed: "Good Heavens ! what has happened; what has my father done to you? How ill ! how awfully ill you look, my darling." " It is nothing; I have not slept," she returned, trying to speak calmly. "1 am unhappy, Hugh, and trouble has made me weak.' "You weak," incredulously ; then, as lie saw her eyes filling with tears," sit down on this smooth white boulder, and I will place myself at your feet. Now give inc your hand, and tell inc what makes you so unlike yourself this evening." Margaret obeyed him, for her limbs were trembling, and a sudden mist seemed to hide him from her eyes; when it cleared, she saw that he was watching her with unconcealed anxiety. "What is it, Margaret?" he asked,' still more tenderly; "what is troubling you, my darling ? " But he grew still more uneasy when she suddenly clung to him in a fit of bitter weeping and asked him over and over again between her sobs to forgive her for making him so unhappy. 'Margaret," he said at last, very gently but firmly, "1 cannot have you say such things to me; forgive you who have been the blessing of my lite; whose only fault is that you love me too well." "1 cannot be your blessing now, Hugh," and then he drew herself from his embrace, 44Do yeti remember this place, dear? it was eah this boulder that I was sitting that evening when you found inc and asked inc to be your wife. We have had some happy days since then Hugh, have we not? and now to -night I have asked you to meet me here, that you may hear from my lips that I shall never be any Man's wife, most certainly not yours, Hugh—my Hugh—whom I love ten thousand times more than I ever loved you before." A pained, surprised look passed oVer Hugh's andsome face. It was evident that he had not expected this. The next inoinent he gave a short derieive _ " So my father hat made Mischief end en passionate ieflection in her voice, between us ; he has 'Ideally made you "do you know of what selfamorifice a "'• ,.,„, , woduia eau be capable? for your dear sake, d in by dark woods: beyond Hugh, I am content to suffer all my life, whjedelaythe winding invisible river. Au to stand aside and be nothing to you—ye, lingh eenie up the straight carriage drive, even to see another woman •your wife, if he might sight of a little girl in a white only you will be true tq yonrself if you fro* playing with a large black retriever will live, your life worthily. Will you on the lawn. promise Me this, Hugh, The dog was rather rough in his plity, "1 will promise nothing," wa,s the reek- and his frolics brought a remonstrance less answer; " I will take no lie upon my lips from his little mitre se ; " Down, bier° ! even to please you, Margaret." down, good dog P' exclaimed a fresh young "Then it must be as God wills," she voice ; " now we must race fairly," and the returned with white lips; this pain will next moment there were twinkligg feet not last forever. One day we shall °Meet coming over the crisp short turf, followed where it will be no sin to love each other. by Nero's bounding footsteps and bark. Good-bye until then, Hugh—my Hugh." But the game ended abruptly as a sudden "Yon are not leaving me, Margaret," and tern in the shrubberiee brought the tall, Hugh's arms held her strongly; but the next fair.bearded stranger in view. moment they had dropped to his side --she " Oh 1 I beg your pardon," exclaimed had stooped and kissed him on the forehead, the same voice, rather shyly ; and Hugh and the touch of those cold lips seemed his took off his hat suddenly in some surprise, death -warrant; the next moment he was for it was no child, but an exceedingly alone, and Margaret was walking swiftly pretty girl, who was looking up in his fife along the little path hollowed out of the with large wondering blue eyes. cliff. The sunset clouds had long agofaded ".1 hope I have not startled you,?' returned and only a grey sky and sea remained. Hugh, courteously, with one of his pleasant Half an hour later, as Margaret turned smiles. What a diminutive creature she in at the gate of the Grange, a dark figure was; no wonder he had taken her at first standing bareheaded under the trees came sight for a °him : her stature was hardly in groping fashion to meet her. more than a well -grown child of eleven or "Is that you, Margaret?"twelve, and the little white frock and "Yes, it is I," and Margaret stood broad -brimmed hat might have belonged to motionless until Baby touched her. a child too. •" Have you seen him, dear ? " But she was a dainty little lady for all "Yes, it is all over." And then she said that, with %beautifully proportioned figure, a little wildly, '1 I have done my duty, as graceful BB a fairy, and a most lovely, winsome little face. " Oh I" she said, with a wonderful attempt at dignity that made him smile— as though he saw a kitten on its best behavior, " I am not at all startled; but of course Nero and I would hardly have had that race if we had known any one was in the shrubbery. Have you lost your way ?" lifting those wonderful Undine -like eyes to his face, which almost startled Hugh with their exceeding beauty and depth. "Is Nero your dog?" returned Sir Hugh, patting the retriever absently ; " he is a fine fellow, only I am afraid he is rather roughsometimes ; he nearly knocked . you down just now in • hisplay. I see you do not remember me, Miss Mordaunt. I am Sir Hugh Redmond. I have come to call on you and your aunt." THE LITTLE PRINCESS. "Oh 1" she said, becoming very shy all Her feet beneath her petticoat at once, " I remember you now ; but you Like little 1211CO, stole in and out, looked different somehow, and the sun was As if they feared the light: in my eyes ; poor Sir Wilfred—yes, we But ohl she dances such a way, No sun upon au Easter day heard he was dead—he came to see Aunt Is half so fine a sight. Griselda once before he went away. It must be very lonely for you at the Hall," and she glanced at his deep mourning, and then at the handsome face that was looking so kindly at her. What a grandelooking man he was, she thought; it must have been his beard that altered him so and prevented her from recognizing him ; but then, of course, she had never seen him since she was a little girl, when her father was alive, and they were living at Wyngate Priory. Hugh Redmond! ah, yes, she remembered him now. She had made a cowslip ball for him once, and he had tossed it right into the middle of the great elms, where the rooks had their nest, and once she had harnessed him with daisy. chains and driven him up and down thebowling-green, while her father laughed at them from the terrace—what a merry little child she used to be—and Hugh Redmond had been a splendid playfellow ; but as she moved beside him down the gravelled walk leading to the cottage her shyness increased, and she could not bring herself to recall these old memories; indeed, Hugh could not get her to look at him again. "There is Aunt Griselda," she said, suddenly, as a tall lady -like woman with a gentle, subdued -looking face appeared in the porch, and seemed much surprised at Hugh's apparition. "Auntie, Sir Hugh Redmond has come to see us," and then without waiting to see the effect of this introduction on her aunt, Nero's little playfellow slipped away. Hugh found himself watching for her re -appearance with some anxiety, as he sat in the porch talking to Aunt Griselda. The elder Miss Mordaunt was somewhat of a recluse in her habits: she was a nervous, diffident woman who made weak health an excuse for shulting herself out from society. Fay had. lived with her ever since her father's death; but during the last year Miss Mordaunt had been much oubled by qualms of conscience, as to whether she was doing her duty to her orphaned niece. Fay was almost a woman, she told herself—a tiny woman certainly, but one must not expect her to grow bigger; girls seldom grew after sixteen, and Fay was more than sixteen. Colonel Mordaunt bad left' very few instructions, in his will about his little daughter. His sister was appointed her personal guardian until she came of age or married ; there was a liberal allowance for maintenance and education; but Colonel Mordaunt was a man of simple habits, and Fay had never been accustomed to either ostentation or luxury ; one day she would be a rich woman, and find herself the possessor of a large, rainbling, old house; until then her father had been perfectly willing that she should live quietly with his sister in her modest cottage at Daintree. Masters and mistresses came over to Fay, and taught her in the low bow -windowed room that was set apart for her use. A chestnut pony was sent from Wyngate Priory ; and Miss Mordaunt's groom accompanined Fay in these lona scrambling rides. The young heiress was perfectly happy and content with her simple secluded life ; Aunt Griselda would hear the girl warbling like a lark in her little room. Long before the inhabitants of the cottage would be stirring Fay's little feet were accustomed to brush the dew froth the grass; Nero and she would return from their rambles in the highest spirits'the basket of wild flowers that graced the breakfast -table had been all gathered and artanged by Fay's pretty fingers. After breakfast there were all her pets to visit—to feed the doves and Chickens and canaries—to give Fair her corn, and to look after the brindled cow and the dearlittle gray -and -black kitten in the hay-loft—all the live things on the premises loved their gracious little mistress ; even Sulky, Aunt, Griselda's old pony—the most ill -Conditioned and stubborn of ponies, who never altered his pace for any degree of coaxing—would whinny with pleasure if Fay entered his stall, Fay was very docile with her masters and Inistressee, but it is only fair to say that her abilities were not above the aeerage. She sipped knowledge carelessly when it came in her way; but she never sought it Raby ; I have broken his heart and my own ; but as she spoke, Baby took her in his arms, and low words of bleasings seemed to falter on his /ips. "My brave sister, but I never doubted for a moment that you would do the right thing. And now be comforted; the same Divine Providence that has exacted this sacrifice will watch over Hugh." " I know it," she said, weeping bitterly; "but he will have to suffer—if I could only suffer for both 1" "He will not suffer one pang too much," was the quiet answer; "but you are worn out, and I, will not talk more to you to:night. Go to your owe room,' Margaret ; tomorrow we will speak of this again." But before she left him he blessedher once more. CHAPTER V. Suckling. One lovely spring afternoon Hugh Red. mond walked through the narrow winding lanes that lead to the little village at Dal ntree. The few passers.by whom he encountered glenced curiously at the tall handsome man in deep mourning, but Hugh did not respond to their looks—he had a grave pre- occupied air, and seemed to notice little; he looked about him listlessly, and the beautiful country that lay bathed in the spring sunlight did not seem to excite even a passing admiration in his mind; the bud- ding hedgerows, the gay chirpings of the unseen birds, busy with family cares, were all unheeded in that hard self absorbed mood of his. Things had gone badly with Hugh Redmand of late; his broken engage- ment with Margaret Ferrers had been fol. lowed by Sir Wilfred's death, Hugh's heart had been very bitter against his father, but before Sir Wilfred died there had been a few Words of reconciliation. "You must not be angry with me, Hugh," the old man had said; "I did it for the best. We were both right, both she and I—ah, she was a fine creature; but when one remembered her poor mother's end— well, we will not speak of that," and then looking wistfully at his son's m ody face, he continued plaintively, "My boy, you will be brave, and not let this spoil your life. I know it is hard on you, but you must not forget you are a Redmond. It will be your duty to marry. When I am gone, go down and see Colonel Mordaunt's daughter;people tell me she is a pretty little creature; you might take a fancy to her, Hugh ;" and half to pacify the old man, and half because he was so sick of himself that he did not care what became of him, Hugh muttered a sort of promise that he would have a look at the girl, and then for a time he forgot all about it. Some months after, a chance word spoken by a friend brought back this promise to his memory. He had been spending a few days at Henley with some old college friends, when one of them' mentioned Daintree, and the same brought back his father's dying words. I may as welldo he said to himself that night ; "the other fellows aro going back to London; it will not hurt me to stop another day"—and so he settled it. Hugh scarcely knew why he went, or what he intended to do; in his heart be was willing to forget his trouble in any new excitement; his one idea during all these months had been to escape the misery of his own thoughts. Yes'he would see the young heiress whom his father had always wished him to marry; he remem- bered her as a pretty child some seven or eight years ago, and wondered with a listless sort or curiosity what the years had done for her, and whether they had ripened or destroyed what was certainly a fair promise of beauty. Poor Hugh 1 It would have been better for him to have travelled and forgotten his disappointment before such an idea had come into his head. Many a one in his case would have shaken off the dust of their native land, and, after having seen strange countries and undergone novel experiences, have returned home partially or wholly cured—perhaps to love again, this time more happily. But with Hugh the time had not • yet come. He was terribly tenacioes in his attachments, but just then anger against Margaret had for a little time swallowed up love. He said to him- self that he would forget her yet—that he would riot lot any Womsn spoil his life. If he sinned, cirounistances were niore to blame than he. Fate was so dead against him his ease was so cruelly heard. Hugh Real:Ilona waif not the only man who, stung by passion, alousy, or reeerige, has taken the first downward step on the green slippery slope that leadifte Avernue. Hugh almost repentcd. his errand when he &tine h sight of the little Gothic cottage With he circular porch, Where Male Mordaunt and her niece lived. The cottage stood on high ground, and below the sloping garden lay abroad expanse of coentry—meadows end ploughed fielcla —that in atittlfnll would., be rich with was:- Griselda were intellectual women, Fay played a little, sang charmingly, filled her sketeh-book with unfinished vigorous sketches, chattered a little French, ana then shut up her books triumphantly, tinder the notion that at sixteen a girl's palleatieli must he finished. It must be confessed that Miss Mordaunt Was hardly the woolen to be entrusted with a girl'seducation, She was a gentle, shallow creature, with narrow views of life, very Prim and puritanical—orthodox, she would have called it—and she brought up Fay in the old,fashioned way in which Rhe herself had been brought up. Fay never mixed with young people; she had no companions of her own age; but people were beginning i to talk of her n the neighborhood. Fay's youth, her prospective riches, her secluded nun -like life, surrounded her with a certain mystery of attraction. Miss Mordaunt had Mee mugh exorcised of late by the fact that one or two families in the environs nf Daintree had tried to force themselves into intimacy with the ladies of the cottage; sundry young men, too, had made their appearance in the little church at Daintrea, as it teemed with the express intention of staring at Fay. One of these, Frank Lumsden, had gone farther—he had taken advantage of a service he had rendered the - ladies, when Sulky had been more intract- able than Luna, to join Fay in her walks and rides. He was a handsome boy of about twenty, and he was honestly smitteft with the young heiress's sweet face; but Aunt Griselda, who knew her brother's wish, had been greatly alarmed, and had thought of shutting up her cottage and taking Fay to Bath for the winter before Frank Lumsden came back to Daintree Hall for the Christmas vacation. Aunt Griselda received Sir Hugk graciously, and prosed gently to him of his father's death; but Hugh turned the con- versation skilfully to herself and Fay. He managed to extract a good deal of informs- ticn from the simple woman about her lovely little niece. Miss Mordaunt could be garrulous on tbe subject of Fay's perfections—she looked upon Hugh. Redmond as the suitor whom her brother would have chosen. Before long Hugh heaed all about FrenkLumsden'senorraities Before he had visited many times at the cottage Aunt Griselda had confided her perplexities to his ear, and had asked his advice—of course he had commended her wisdom in driving the unlucky Frank Irons the field. "It would never do, you know; he is only a boy," Aunt Griselda observed plaintively ;I" and Fay will be so rich one of these days.' "Oh 1 it would never do at all," responded Hugh, hastily. The idea of Frank Lumsden annoyed him. What business had all these impertinent fellows to be staring at Fay in church? He should like to send them all about their business, he thought; for though hardly a week had passed, Hugh was beginning to feel a strong interest M. Fay. He had not spoken to her again on that first visit, but after a time she had joined them in the porch, and had sat down demurely by Aunt Griselda, and had busied herself with some work. Hugh could not make her speak to him, but he had a good look ether. She had laid aside her broad -brimmed hat, and he saw the beautiful little head was covered with soft curly brown hair, that waved naturally over the temples. It was coiled gracefully behind, but no amount of care or pains could have smoothed those rippling waves. He wished more than once that he could have seen her eyesagain, but she kept them. fixed on her embroidery; only when any-. thing amused her a charming dinaple showed on one cheek. It was the prettiest dimple he had ever seen, and he caught himself trying to say something that would bring it again. Hugh paid a long visit, and in a few days he came again. He was staying at Cooksley, he told them carelessly; and if they would allow it, he added courteously, he should like to walk over to Daintree and see them sometimes. Miss Mordaunt gave him gpacious permission, and Fay looked shyly pleased - and so it came that Hugh called daily ski the cottage. (To be continued.) A Relief for Railway Travellota. Among the many provisions which the Grand Trunk Railway Company are con- tinually making for the cointort and con- venience of their patrons is the adoption by them in their cars of the Travellers' Head Rest. This contrivance is the product of the ingenuity of -a well-known Montrealer who is frequently on the road and has ex- perienced the discomforts attended upon desire to take a rest and the lack of pro- vision in the ordinary first-class oars to enable him to do so in the easiest possible manner. He recently communicated his ideas to Mr. Wallis, Mechanical Superin- tendent of the railway, who et once saw the advantages that were to be derived, and orders were forthwith given to carry out the suggestions as an experiment in con- nection with one of twenty cars belonging to the" Standard" series the latest pro- duction of the Grand Trunk shops. Car No. 106, which was fitted up at Montreal with the new head rest, armed in Toronto on Saturday morning and lay all yesterday, at the Union station. An octogenarian widower is sued for breach of promise by a widow 50 years old in Grand Rapids, Mich. That this world is not balanced right Is plainly to be soon. When one man walks to make him fat,1 And another to make him lean. It is said that the milk of cowe that are salted regularly churns much more easily than the milk of cows not salted. A revolution in the Province of Tuella man, Argentine Republic, has been sup. pressed with a loss of 400 lives. ON LAKE ONTART Green aro thy waters; groon as bottled glue. Behold 'ora stretched tharl Fine rnuslcalonges and Oswego bass Is chiefly catched thar °net the red aniline that' tdok their delights, •Fislat, fit and bled, Now most Of the inhabitants is whites, 'With " nary a red." OsiticOo Poet. Largo and influential petitions were pre- sented to the Totonto City Cotincil last night, asking for home tangible recognition o ex -Chief of Police Draper's long service. It wite suggested that he begiveri one year's! salary, $2,500, The petitions were referred of her own accord, Neither she nor Aunt to the Executive Committee. 141.