HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Advocate, 1887-07-21, Page 2Wait a Mt.
(Tho Cel#11xY-)
When Johnny came .-courting
I thought him overbold,
For I was but a young thing
And lie not very old.
And though I liked hisuivell etioUgla
I sent hini on his way,
With " Wait a bit, ludo a bit,
. Wait a week and a, day 1"
When Johnny passed me in the lane,
And pleaded for a kiss,
And vowed he'd love me evermore
For granting of the bliss;
Although rd liked it overwell,
tan from him away,
With" Wait a bit, bide a bit,
Wait a week and a day 1"
When Johnny fell a -ranting,
With "Jenny, be tuy wife ?"
And vowed I never should regret,
However long my.life
Although I likaal it best o' all,
I turned from him away, ,
With " Wait a bit, bide a bit.
Wait a week and a day 1"
Oh, 'Johnny was a ninny:
He took me at iny word
And he was courting another
The nest thing that I heard.
Oh, what a ninny was Johnny,
To mind me when ra say
" Wait a bit, bide a bit,
Wait a weelc and a day 1"
flejgh-ho, I've met my Johnny,
I gm hini a blink o' itny eye,
And then he fell a -raving,
For want omy love he'd die 1
neer could be so cruel,
So I set the wedding day, -
With " Haste bit, nor waste a bit,
There's danger in delay,"
SIR HUGH'SLOVES.
For when November came with its short
days, its yellow fogs, its heavy damp
atmosphere, a terrible thing happened in
Mr. Huntingdon's office.
A stung clerk, the Sone above, Manriee-7
a Weels, dissipated' fLos, yho: had Jately
4 ,
given „great dissatisfaction by ha rin-
•
punctuality and citielessneeis—abitcondert
one;cisly with five lhoustinl,pessnde; belong-
emplOyer.: Mr. Hunthigdon had
- just given eutherity to the Manager to
clismisdhfin when the facts of his disap-
pearance ancrtheinissing sum were brought
to their ears. The deed was a cool one,
and so cleverly execute.' that more than
one believed that an older hand was
concerned in it; but in the midst of the
consternation and confusion, while the
manager stood rubbing his hands nervously
together, and Mr. Huntingdon, in his cold,
bard voice, was giving instructions to the
detective, Maurice Trafford quietly asked
SS to speak to him a moment, and offered to
accompany the detective officer.
He knew George Anderson's haunts, he
said, and from a chance word accidentally
overheard, he thought he had a clue, and
might succeed in finding him.
There was something so modest and
self-reliant in the young man's manner as
he spoke, that, after a searching glance at
him, Mr. Huntingdon agreed to leave the
matter in his hands, only bidding him not
to let the young villain escape, as ,he
certainly meant to punish him.
Many were the incidents that befell
Maurice and his companion in this his first
and last detective case; but at last, thanks
to his sagacity and the unerring instinct of
the officer, they were soon on the right
traok, and before night had very far
advanced were hanging about a low public.
house in Liverpool, lurking round corners
and talking to stray sailors.
And the next morning they boarded the
Washington, bound for New York, that
was to loose anchor at the turn of the tide ;
and while Staunton, the detective, was
risking inquiries of the captain about the
steerage passengers, Maurice's sharp eyes
had caught eight of a young Bailor with a
patch over his eye, apparently busy with a
coil of ropes, and he walked up tohim care-
lessly ; but as he loitered at his side a
moment his manner changed.
" Don' t look rounds George," he whispered ;
for heaven's sake keep to the ropes or you
are lost. Slip the pocketbook in my hand,
and I will try and get the detective out of
the boat."
" Would it be penal servitude, Maurice?"
muttered the lad, and his face turned a
ghastly hue at the thought of the human
bloodhound behind him.
,1‘ Five or ten years at least," returned
Maurice. "Were you mad, George? Give
t t to me—quick---quick 1 andlswill.put him
on the wrong scent- That's tight/. an the
s shaking hand pushed a heavy 'brown
• ponket-book towards him. "Good -by,
George; say your prayers • to -night, and
thank God that you are saved."' • • • •
" Staunton," he said aloud, as the detec-
tive approachd him, "we are wrong ; he
is in the bow of the Brown Bess, and he
sails in the Prairie Flower ;" and as he
uttered the first lie that he had ever told
in his guileless young life, Maurice looked
full in the detective's face and led him
quietly away.
But a couple of hours later—when
Staunton was loosing his temper over their
want of success, Etna the Washington was
steaming out of the dock—Maurice suddenly
produced the pocket -book, and proposed
that they should take tbe next train back
for London. "For I am very tired,"
finished Maude" with provoking good -
humor ; " and Mr. Huntingdon will sleep
better to night if we give him back his five
thousand pounds."
" You'll let the rogue go 1" exclaimed
Staunton, and he swore savagely. " You
have cheated justice, and connived at his
escape."
" Yea," answered Maurice calmly.
" Don't put yourself out, my good fellow.
will take all the blame. Ho sailed in the
Washington, and there she goes like a bird.
Yon are out of temper because 1 was too
• sharp for you. Evil communications
corrupt good manners, Staunton. / have
taken a leaf out of your book—don't you
think I should melee, splendid detective ?"
continued Maurice, rattling on in pure
boyish fun. "1 got up the little fiction
about the Brown Bess and the Prairie
Flower 'when r de.er hins dressed like a
sailor, with a patch over his eye, hauling,
'in'the'ropes.."
Theo,
as Staunton° uttered 'smother
oath:
"Why, dia you expect me to bring back
my old onira, when I knew they would
give hinsfive or ten years of penal iservit ode ?
Do you thin141 stri flesh and blood and
could do it? No t I have kefit my promise,.
and brought beck the five thousand pounds,
and not a farthing of it would he or you have
rieen Istit for me."
Perhaps Staunton was not me hardhearted , had Stet in, and Mr. Huntingdon had, sent
as he seemed, for he Ceased blustering and
shook Maurice's haud very heartily; nay,
more, when they told their story, and Mr.
Huntingdon frowned' angrily on boring
Maurice had connived at the criminal's
escape, he spoke up for Maurice. "You
did not expect the young gentleman, sir, to
put the handcuffs on his old pal; it is
against human nature, you see."
"Perhaps so," returnedMr. Huntingdon,
coldly; "but I should have thought better
of you, Trafford, if you had sacrificed
feeling in the matter. Well, it may rest
now. I have struck off George Anderson's
nestle as defaulter out of my book and
memory, and I will tell Dobson to add his
salary to yours. No thanks," he continued
in rather a chilling manner, as Maurice's
eyes sparkled, and he attempted to speak;
" it is a fair recompense for your sagacity.
Go on as well as you have begun, and your
future will be assured. To -morrow I shall
expect you to cline with me at Belgrave
House. Dobson is coming, too," and with
a slight nod Mr. Huntingdon dismissed
him.
That night Maurice laid his head upon
his pillow and dreamed happy dreams of
a golden future. To -morrow he should
see the dark -eyed girl who had spoken so
sweetly to him ; and as he remembered her
words and glances of gratitude, and the
touch of her soft white hands, Maurice's
heart gave quick throbs that were almost
pain.
He should see that lovely face again,
was his first waking thought; but when the
evening was over Maurice Trafford went
back to his lodgings a sadder and a wiser
man.
He was dazzled and bewildered when he
saw her again—the young girl in the white
gown was changed into a radiant princess.
Nea was dressed for a ball; she came across
the great lighted room to greet Maurice in
a cloud of gauzy draperies. Diamonds
gleepaed on her neck and arms; her _eyes
were shinihgs, she looked so beivilderingly,
bearitifid that Maurice grey:, embarrassed,
air,tbeenorethatbli.'Huntingdon's colabyea
w.PresuPY9 h.iln• • .
Maurice' nevei. recalled That evening
without paid.. A great golf seemed to open
between him and his Master's daughter;
what was there iu commonbetween them?
Nati talked gaily to him as well as t� her,
other guests, but he could hardly bring
himself to answer her.
His reserve disappointed Nea. She had
been longing to see him again, but the
handsome young clerk seemed to have so
little to say to her. He was perfectly
gentlemanly and well bred, but he appeared
somewhat depressed.
Nea's vanity was piqued at last, and when
Lord Bertie joined them in the evening
she gave him all her attention. Things had
not progressed according to Mr. Hunting.
don's wiehee. Nes, could not be induced to
look favorably on Lord Bertie's suit; she
pouted and behaved like a spoilt child when
her father spoke seriously to her on the
subject. The death of one of Lord Bertie's
sisters had put a stop to the wooing for the
present; but it was understood that he
would speak to Nea very shortly, and after
a long and angry areument with her
father, she MA induced.' to promise that
she would listen to him.
' Nen was beginning to feel the wright of
her father's inflexible will. In spite of
her gaiety and merry speeches, she was
hardly happy that evening. Lord Bertie'a
heavy speeches and meaningless jokes
oppressed her—how terribly weary she
would get of him if he were her husband,
she thought. She was tired of him already
—of his commonplace handsonse face—of
his confidential whispers' and delicately -
implied compliments—and then she looked
up and met Maurice's thoughtful grey eyes
fixed on her. Nett never knew why she
blushed, or a strange restlees feeling came
over her that moment; but she answered
Lord Bertie pettishly. It was almost a
relief when the carriage was announced,
and she was to leave her guests. Maurice,
who was going, stood at the door while
Lord Bertie put her in this carriage—a
little gloved hand waved to him out of the
darkness—and then the evening was
over.
Mr. Huntingdon had not seemed like
himself that night; he had complained of
headache and feverishness, and had confided
to Dobson that perhaps after all Dr. Ainslie
was right, and he ought to have taken more
rest. •• • ,
Somehowsheswesi ..not the .nsen ,.he .htid
been before' his :accident Somyerthelessi
.ridiculed the idetiStlist, rage& was ;Sunless
and talked vagnely of running clown to the
Sealer a les*Setiye.' • • •
But not mien that, determinedmill. of hiss
could shake off the illness that was -creeps
ing over him, and one night when Nee,
rsturned from a brilliant reunion she found
Belgrave House a second time in confusion.
Mr. Huntingdon had been taken suddenly
ill, and Dr. Ainslie was in attendance.
By and by a nurse arrived—a certain
bright.eyed little Sister Teresa—and took
charge of the sick man. After the first few
days of absolute danger, during which he
had been tolerably submissive, Mr. Hunt-
ingdon had desired that he should be kept
informed of all matters connected with an
important law suit of his at present pend-
ing, ; and during the tedious weeks of con-
valescence Maurice Trafford carried the
daily report to Belgrave House. It seemed
as though fate was conspiring against him;
every day he saw Nea, and every day her
presence grew more perilously sweet to him.
She had a thousand innocentpretexts for
detaining him, little girlish coquetries
which she did not employ in vain. She
would ask him about her father, or beg
him to tell her about the tiresome lawsuit,
or show him her birds and flowers'any-
thing, in fact, that her caprice could devise
to keep hire beside her for a moment: very
often they met in her father's room, or Mr.
Huntingdon would give orders that Mr.
Trafford should stay to lunchen.
Nen, in her blindness, thought she was
only amusing herself with an old fancy, ti
girl's foolish partialityfor a face that
seemed ain
led i
perfect n her eyes; she
little thought that Ali Was playing a
dangerous game,'that the time was fast
approaching when she Would And her fancy
Boridwful reality.
Day by day these Arden indnientebectitne'
more perilous in their eweetness ; and One
morning Nee woke up to the coneirstion
that Maurice Trafford loved her, that he
was everything to her, and that she 'Would
rather aid than live Without him.
It was one afterntion, and they were
together in the drawing -room. 'Maurice
had coins late that day, .14a a violent storm
chswo wird that Mr. Treffera ,had better
wait until it Was over. To de Ildrt Hunting.
arm justice, he had no idea hie daughter
was in the house; slio had gime put to
intiehoPP, and ,119 /*d not 443,ir4 (4 her would nierrY Maurice at once if he wished
returns it yes, perhapa
The heevYYelVet curtains had been drawn fatherat'WWolucliCibneeverli'giylvise.hesist
to shut out the dmarY Hoene, and only the consent but when it was teolate to prevent
firelight lit up the room; Nee, sitting in it he might be induced to forgive their
whehritfeavrg,wasouritelo
wi%khaiinri withatmherefut
e:tee7wwho to
c arriagCs It Wes very wrong, She knew,
stood leaning soh* the raantiepiece but it Would be the, 014 WeY to free her
from Lord Bostic. Her father would be
talking to her. terribly angry, but his anger would not
He was telling her Omit his father's last; she Was his only child, and he had
early death, and of the Sweet-faced mother never denied her anything.
who had not long survivsd him; of his Poor Nes 1 there was something pathetic
own struggles and poverty, of in lonely in her blindness and perfect faith in her
lite, his efforts to follow his parents' father; even Maurice felt his misgiving
example. Nea listened to him in silence; silenced as he listened to her innocent talk;
but once he paused, and the words seemed and again the angels wept over Maurice's
to die on his lips. He had never seen her deeper fall, and Nea's unholy victorY,
look like that before; she was trembling, They had planned it ; in three weeks
her face Was Pale, and her eyes 'Were wet time they were to
be married. Mr. Hunt -
with tears; and then, how it happened ingdon could notleave before then. On the
neither of them could tell, but Maurice day before that fixed for the journey, the
knew that he loved her—knew that Kea bond was to be eesled and signed between
loved him—and was heading her to his them, so that no power of man could part
heart as though he could never let her go, them. Mr. Huntingdon might storm ever
CHAPTER IX. so loudly, his anger would break against an
adamantine fate, "Those whom God has
joined together no man can put asunder"—
words of altered terror and responsibility.
The next three weeks were very troubled
01113B to Maurice; hie brief interviews withNea
were followed by hours of bitter misgiving.
But Nes was childishlyexcited and happy;
every day herlove for Maurice increased and
deepened. The shadow of his moral weak-
ness could not hide his many virtues. She
gloried in the thought of being his wife,
them
Nea
her father would be good to them,
perhaps after all they would go to Pau, but
Maurice and not Lord l3ertie would be with
Nea never hesitated, never repented,
though Maurice's face grew thin and
haggard with anxiety as the days went
by.
,They were to be married in one, of the
old City 'churches ;. and efteiwardi;lifeerice
was tolike Ileitis his logiqg in ,
Street' and they were to write a letter 'to
Mr. Huntingdon. Maurice must help her
write it, Nets said. Of course her father
would be angry—fearfully angry—but after
a few hours he would calm down, and then
he would send the carriage for her; and
there would be a scene of penitence and
reconciliation. Neapainted it all in glowing
colors, but Msurice, shook his head with
a sad smile, and begged her not to deceive
herself. Mr. Huntingdon might not for-
give them for a long' time, for he remem-
bered George Anderson, and the inexorable
will that would have condemned the young
criminal to penal eervitude.
And so one,morning as Mr. Huntingdon
was sitting by the open window watching
the children play in the May sunshine, and
wondering why hie daughter had not been
to wish him good morning, Nea had stolen
out of her father's house, and was hurry-
ing through the sunny square and green
deserted park until she found Maurice
waiting for her, who silently took her hand,
and put her into the carriage.
Nea said afterwards that it was that
silent greeting of Maurice's, and his cold
touch, that first brought a doubt to her
mind; during the long drive he spoke little
to her—only held her hand tightly; and
when at last they stood together in the
dark old church with its gloomy altar and
white gleaming monuments, the poor child
gave s shiver that was almost fear, and
suddenly burst into tears. It had come
upon her all at once what she was doing,
and why she was there; but already it
was too late, for while she was. clinging to
Maurice with low frightened sobs, the
curate had hurried from the vestry, and
had entered within the rails, and the pew
opener wan beckoning them to take their
places.
Too late 1 too late! Ten minutes more
and the knot was tied that no hand could
loosen, and Nea Huntingdon had become
Nes Trafford.
s « s
But when they had left the gloomyold
church in the distance, and were driving
through the crowded streets with their
babel of voices, Nea's courage and !spirits
revived; and presently she was tripping
about Maurice,s shabby rooms, rearranging
the bowls of jonquils and lilac, with which
thp landlady had made some show of
festivity, unlooping.the stiff folds of the
muslincurtains,* and peeping into the
corner cupboards With the gleeful curiosity
of a child, nod!, her youngShusband'd
gentle . rernonstranee, her seribrisneia
,returned, and she sat dome to write the
formidable letter:. t ,
And hove formidable it was Nes never
imagined, until she had tried and failed,
and then tried again till she sighed for
very weariness ; and then Maurice came to
her aid with a few forcible sentences; and
So it got itself writen—the ;Saddest, most
penitent little letter that a daughter's hand
could frame.
But when she had laid down the burthen
of her secret, and the special messenger
ha I been despatched to Belgrave House,
Nea put off thought for a while, and she
sat by the window and chatted to Maurice
about the gay doings they would have at
Pau, and Maurice listened to her; but
always there was that sad incredulous smile
on his face.
And so the day wore on, but when they
had finished their simple dinner and the
afternoon. had waned into evening, Nee,
grew strangely quiet and Maurice's face
grew graver and . graver as they sat with
clasped hands in the .. twilight, with a
them, of silence growing up between
h
And When the dusk became darkness,
and the lamp was brought in, Nes looked
at Maurice with wide ankieutS eyes and
asked what it meant. -
Were they not going to send the carriage
for them: after ? she Wondered ; must
she go home on foot and brave her father's
anger? he must be to very, very angry,
she thought, to keep them: so long in
suspense.
Hush 1" &chained Maurice, and then
they heard the rumbling of wheels that
stopped suddenly before the door, and the
loud pealing of a bell through the house.
" The 'Serried° 1 the carriage 1" cried
-
Nes, and the flush rose to her fiice as tihe
started to her feet, but Maurico aid itot
answer; • he was grasping the table to
supporthimself, and felt as though another
iricrinent'e suspense would be ihtolerable.
A letter for Mrs. Trafford," obserVed
,
he must either lose her or*mPt hie fate -
Again he tried to reason With her, to be
true to himself and her; but Nea Would net
give him sip or let him tell her father. She
TUE ANYAKENING.
That thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice,
He stretched hie arms out towards that thrilling
voice,
As if to draw it on to his embrace.
I take her as God made her, and as men
Must fail to unmake her, for my honor'd wife,
E. E. 13rowning.
Paradise itself could hardly hold an hour
of purer and moresperfect bliss than when
those two young creatures stood holding
each other's hands and confessing their
mutual love.
To Nea it was happiness, the happiness
for which she had secretly. longed. To
Maurice it was a dazzling dream, a mad-
ness, an unreality, from which he must
wake up to doubt bis own sanity—to
tremble and disbelieve.
And that awakenbsg.CMIle all too soon.. Thcotigh thelong lesnrsOf the iiight he
layand'pendered,'till .with thkeilence. and
darkrieis.ntlionseisd elisleisYtliouglitS arose
that cooled thnfever in veins aild'made
him chill with the foreboding of evil.
What had he done? Was he mad? Had
it been all his fault that he had betrayed
his love? had he not been sorely tempted?
and yet, would not a more honorable man
have left her without saying a word?
How could he go to Mr. Huntingdon and
acknowledge what he had done? that he, a
mere clerk, a poor curate's son, had dared
to aspire to his daughter, to become the
rival of Lord Bertie Gower—for Nea had
confided to him her father's ambition.
Would he not think him mad? groaned
Maurice, or would he turn with that hard
dark look on his face that he knew so well,
and give him a curt dismissal?
Maurice remembered. George Anderson
and trembled, as well he might; and then
as the whole hopelessness of the case rushed
upon him, he thought that he would tell
his darling that he had been mad—die-
honorable, but that he would give her up;
that he loved her better than himself, and
that for her own sweet sake he must give
her up.
And so through the long dark hours
Maurice lay and fought out his fierce battle
of life, and morning fclund him the victor.
The vietor, but not for long; for at the
first hint, the first whispered word that he
must tell her father, or that he must leave
her for ever, Nes clung to him in a perfect
passion of tears.
The self-willed, undisciplined child had
grown into the wayward undisciplined
girl. No one but her fatherhad ever
thwarted Nem, and now even his will had
ceased to govern her; she could not and
would not give up the only man whom she
loved; nothing on earth ehould induce her
now to marry Lord Bertie—she would
rather die first; if he left her she should
break her heart, but he loved her too well
to leave her.
Poor Maurice 1 An honorable man would
have nerved himself to bear her loving re-
proaches; would have turned sadly and
firmly from her confused girlish sophistries,
and reproved them with a word. He would
have told her that he loved her, but that he
loved honor more; that he would neither
sin himself nor suffer her to tempt him
from his sense of right. But Maurice did
none of .these things; he was young and
weak; ifie temptation was too powerful;
he. stayed, listened, arid was lost. Ah 1
the angele znust have wept that • day over
Maurioe' fall, and Nes's yiotory: • •,
Slie od himwhat hoikneW already, that
Mr Huntingdon would tun him, out of hie
office; that he would "..cuipre'gs her cruelly;
that 110' would probablyitake her abroad;
or condemn her to dolitude,•until she had
promieed to give him up and marry Lord
Bertie.
Could he lee.ve her to her father's tender
mercies, or abandon her to that other
lover? and ehe wept so passionately as
she said this that a stronger man than
Maurice must have felt his strength
waver. -
And so Nes had the victory, and the days
flew by on golden wings, and the stolen
moments became sweeter and more precious
to the young lovers until the end came.
Mts. Huntingdon was better—he could
leave his room and walk up and down the
corridor leaning on Sister Teress's arm.
There was less pain and fewer relapses;
and when Dr. Ainslie proposed that his
patient should spend the rest of the spring
in the south of France, Mr. Huntingdon
consented without demur.
They were to be away some months, Mr.
Huntingdon informed Nea, and extend
their tour to Switzerland and the nation
Tyrol. Lord Bertie had promised to join
them at Pan in a znonth or so, and here
her father looked at her with a smile.
They could get the trousseau in Paris. Nea
must make up her mind to 'accept him
before they started • there must be no more
delay , or shilly-shallying; the thing had
already hung fire too long. Lord Herds;
had been eomplainingthat he was not fairly
treated, and more to the same purpose.
Nes listened in perfect Silence, but it was
Well that her father could not see her face..
Presently she rose and said thet he was
tired and infist talk no 'more; for Mr.
Trafford would be here directly ; and 'then
she made seine pretext' for leaving the
rbTa.urice found her Waiting for him when
he Calm downstairs. As he took her in
his arms, and asked her why she looked so
pale and strange, she clung to him almost
convulsively, and implored hitt to save
hots Merino was as pale as ishe long before
she had finished ; the oriole had come, and
h`e` toreWisaptp ob onXirshe?"19tetxecrla,iitniededgNiszed, hutpwas
the;contenta;ro crlescpedher•
mgriceLi:ur,cotorieat
u9 poor
eha,lnd4itingitfromher, read
ittncetticethricegrowingwhiter
and
whterwiheaciperusai,andthensank
on a chair, hiding his face in his
beanies
with a groan. Oh my darling," he
d
gasped,
m# XI have
wouldr
u
‘ing
i
n
Tielld
ylo; ha
; miss darling,
f,
have ruined you and brought you to
beggary,,,,
They had sinned, and beyond doubt
their sin was a heavyone ; but what father,
if he had any humanity, could have looked
at those two desolate creatures, BO young,
and loving each other so tenderly, and.
would not have hadpity on them?
(To be continued.)
Food That Gives atescie.
The lumbermen in the Maine formai
work intensely in the cold enows of winter.
and in the icy water in the spring. To
endure the severe labor and cold, they moat
have food to yield a great deal of heat and
strength. Beane and fat pork are staple
articles of diet with them, and are used in
very large quantities. The beans supply
protein to make up for the wear and tear
of muscle, and they, and more especially
the pork, are very rich in energy to be used
for werinth and work.
I cannot vouch for the following, which
has jut struck my eye in a daily paper, but,
if it is true, the workmen were sound in
their physiology:
"A lot of woodchoppers who worked for
Mr. 8— in H— stopped work the other
day, and sent a spokesman to their
employer, who said that the men were
satisfied with their wages and most other
things, but didn't like 'your fresh meat;
that's too fancy, and hain't got strength
into:it.plr. 8— gave them salt pork three
times a day, and peace at once resumed its
Sway."
,The use of oily and fatty goods in,arotio
regions is Seiplainea, by the . great", potential
energy of fat, a pound Of which is equal to
over.teropounde of protein or starch: I
have been greatly aurprised to see, on look-
ing into the matter, how cossimonly and
targely,the fatter kinds of meat are used.
by men engaged in very hard labor. Men
in training for athletic contests, as oars-
men and football teams, est large quanti-
ties of meat. I have often queried why so
much fat beef is used, and especially why
mutton is often recommended in preference
to beef for training diet. Both the beef
and the mutton are rich in protein, which
makers muscle. Mutton has the advantage
of containing raore fat along with the
protein, and hence more potential energy.
Perhaps this is another case in which
experience has led to practice, the real
grounds for which have later been explained
by scientific research.—Prof. Atwater in the
Century.
4.
Bridesmaids in Germany.
In Germany the duties of the brid4-
maids have just a tinge of superstition
about them. It is one of their duties on
the morning of the marriage day to carry
to the bride a myrtle wreath, for which
they had subscribed on the previous even-
ing. This they place on her head, and at
night remove it, when it is placed in the
bride's hand, she being at the time blind-
folded. The bridesmaids then dance
around her, while she endeavors to place
the wreath on one of their heads. Who-
ever is fortunate enough to be thus
decorated will, it is believed, be herself
a wife before another year has passed
away.
,In removing the bridal wreath and veil.
the beidesznaids are careful to throw away
every pin, or the bride will be overtaken by
misfortunes; while any unwary bridesmaid
who retains one of these useful little arti-
cles will materially leseen her chances of
"getting off."
Like many other German superstitions,
this has found its way into England,
though it has not yet become a genera/
belief.
• mot,
Chinese Money -Raising Methods.
The Christian Union reports that the
heathen in China have a practice that, if
introduced into this country, would soon
abolish church fairs, raffles, pound parties
and the other questionable- means of rais-
ing money to run the church. Dr. Corbett,
a' :returned missionary, says: ." The
heathen nover,go to their temples to wor-
ship without carrying an offering of , some
kind ass proof of their sincerity. When
they become Chrietians this conviction as
not rooted thit, but rather it is heightened
in proportion as Christianity is regarded
as superior to heathenism. I have seen
them give to such an extent that I have
felt it a duty to, remonstrate and remind
them that they owed duties to their homes
which must not be forgotten."
Were it not for the danger attending the_
knowledgeof our church methods it world
be wise to have a few Chinese sent to this
country as missionaries in this particular
department of church work. The Chinese
are so imitative that, on the whole, it is
best for our people to confine the knowledge
of their methods of raising money to our
own shores.---Christion Advocate.
The First Speech of the Young Man.
"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen—The
poet has beautifully said, in those words so
familiar to you all, but which, unfortu-
nately, have eecpped me at this moment,
he has said—in the words; of the poet—the
poet—has aaid—now, gentlemen, I did not
expect to be called upon to speak at this
banquet to -night, hence—though I could
probably speak better hence than I can here
—hence I feel—I mean I find myself—that
is to say, you find me—and—and—realizing
as 1 do --happiest moment in my life. Now,
I didn't come here to make a Speech—"
" We aoe you didn't," interrupted the
Chairman, and the young man sat down
amid thunders of applause.—Texas Siftings.
Work .on the short line railway from
Montreal ter the sea is progressing sadden-
torily. All the contraets in the State of
Maine have been awarded, and the sections
tinder contract aro expected td be cons -
plated in November.
A. Skye terrier belonging to a London
gentleman, Saye the Pietd, is aeries for eight
little chickens. They Sweeny a brisket and
the chickens; nestle in the dog's long hair
the landlady in .soleten SWEstitruck tones, , and gems cOmfortable. They folio* the
"and, a Men in 11:0ery and the cabman are i dog about and tlie bfute strives to give
Winging in Somalis:dee." therd all the personal dare possible,