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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,