HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Advocate, 1887-07-28, Page 6117
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Ho 1 ;here aro lives by the sopro to sell ;
tethe platform, gents, and id;b
Idake in an offer, they'll pay you well, -
_411 0 ',out ripe for the 004 hd,
Piere iP WOMSen, piublied and pale,
Plying or needle for daily broad I
Give me a shirt for her—more on Sale,
Dying I gent1emen-4*w k-clOad
A family, sec M number, here,
Fresh from a collar in periling Tows, t
Mother her.shith penflnemout near,
Father and brats with fever Own.
'Twos pestilence Spoke then, was it not. ?
1, An open sewer," I think he said ;
Well, his oifer shall buy the lot,
Dying 1 gentlepson—elyiug !,
Now, good customers, here's p, chance:
A thousand men in the prime of life,
Wielders 0 musket, sword gad lance,
Arined and drilled for the deadly strife,
General Warfare lifts his harid
"A bullet for 06,0h," cries th(3 gent in rod,
No offer but his—fast flows the sand,
Dying 1 gentlemen—dying 1—dead I
A body of toilers, worn and weak,
Clerk and curates and writing mon,.
Look at tho flush on each sunken check,
Nark the fingers that grasp the pen 1
Come, good gentlemen, can't we deal?
Has Drudgery's eye for bargains fled?
Hearers, at last, the price of a meal—
Dying 1 gontlemen—dying dead 1
-,-Gnoson 1 Sum.
SIR HUGH'S LOVES.
The letter was as follows :
eeeeetr —I am directed by Mr Hunt-
ingdon to inform you that from this day
he will hold no communication with you or
your husband,
"He wishes me to add that he has sent
all clothes, jewels, and personal effects
belonging to his daughter Nes Huntingdon,
now styling herself Nea Trafford, to the
enclosed address, and he has directed his
manager, Mr. Dobson, to strike Mr.
Maurice Trafford's name off the list of
clerks. Any attempts to open any further
correspondence with Mr. Huntingdon will
be useless, as all such letters will be
returned or destroyed.—I remain, madam,
your hurable servant, &ma TsussA."
Enclosed Was a cheque for two hundred
pounds and a little slip of paper with a
few pencilled lines in Sister Teresa's hand-
writing.
"For the love of heaven do not send or
come—it would be worse than useless he
is nearly beside himself with anger ; your
maid interceded for you with tears, and
has been sent away with her wages. No one
dares to say a word."
Oh fathers I provoke not your children to
wrath. It was that hard, cruel letter that
changed Nea's repentance to unrelenting
bitterness.
Instinctively she felt the iron of her
father's will enter into her soul. In a
moment she understood, as she had never
done before, the hardness and coldness
of his nature, the inflexibility of his purpose ;
as well might she dash herself against a
rock as expect forgiveness. Well, she was
his own child, her will was strong too, and
in the anguish of her despair she called
upon her pride to support her, she leant her
fainting woman's heart upon that most
rotten of reeds.
He had disinherited her, his only child,
he had flung her away from him. Well,
she would defy. him; and then she re-
membered his illhealth, their projected
tr pbo Pau, their happy schemes for the
future, till her heart felt almost broken, but
for all that she stood like a statue, crushing
down the pain in the very stubbornness of
her pride.
Ah, Nea, unhappy Nea poor motherless,
wilful girl; well may she look round her
with that scared, hunted look.
Was this her future home, these poor
rooms, this shabby furniture? Belgrave
House closed to her for ever. But as she
looked round with that fixed miserable
glance, why did the tears suddenly dim her
eyes?
Her glance had fallen on Maurice, still
sitting motionless with his hands before
his eyes—Maurice, her husband ; yes, there
he sat, the man whom her own wilfulness
had dragged to the brink of ruin, whose
iaith and honor she had tempted, whose
honest purpose she had shaken and
destroyed, who was so crushed with remorse
for his own weakness that he dare not
look her in the face; and as she gazed at
him, Nea's whole heart yearned with
generous pity over the man who had
brought her to poverty, but whom she had
loeed and would love to her life's end.
And Maurice, sitting crushed with that
•awful remorse, felt his hands drawn down
iron' his face, and saw Nea's beautiful
face smiling at him through her tears, felt
the smooth brown head nestle to his breast,
and heard the low sobbing words—
"For better, for worse, for richer, for
poorer, till death ns do part, have I not
promised, Maurice? tike me to your heart
and comfort noe with your love, for in all
the world I have no one but you—no one
but you 1"
CHAPTER X.
m Dm. \units.
Let our unceasing, earnest prayer •
Be, too, for light, for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight to care,
That crushes into dumb despair
Ono half the human race,
0 suffering, sad humanity!
0 ye afflicted ones, who lio
Stoop'd to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,
Patient though sorely tried !
I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf !
The battle of your lifeia brief,
The alarm, the strugglethe relief;
Than sleep we side by side,
Longfellow
Nee had to learn by bitter experience
that the fruits of disobedience and deceit
are like the apples of Sodom, fair to the
sight, but mere ashes to the taste, and in
her bitter mood she owned that her
punishment was just.
Slowly and laboriously, with infinite care
and pains, she set herself to unlearn the
lessons of her life. For wealth she had
poverty; for ease andluxury, privation and
toil ; but in all her troubles her strong will
and pride sestained her. ; and though F312o
auffered, and heaven only knew how she
Buffered 1 she never complained or murmured
until the end came.
For her pride sustained her, and when
that failed, her love came to her aid.
How she loved him, hew she clung to
him in those days, no ono but Maurice
itneW ; in her bitterest holm his words had
power to eomfort her and take the sting
from her pain. When it was possible, she
hid her troublee from hire, and never
added to his by vain epining and regrete0
But in epite of, Neneotrage and
Alatiriee'e Patience, they lied a terrible
herd life et
At "first 14auricele efforts to find smother
elerltehiP Were in Vain, end they *are
goinpellea to live on the proceeds of the
cheque; then Nea sold her jewels, that
they migi# have something to fall beck
upon. But Presently Mr.Pebson came to
their aid,
HO 110 a large family, and cogid pot do
muoh, as he told them, sorrowfully; but
he found Maurice), with some trouble, P.
small plerkship at eighty pounds a year,
advising him at the same time to eke gut
their scanty income by taking in copying
work of au evening.
Indeed, as Maurice discovered many a
time in his need, he do not want a friend
as long as the good manager lived.
And so those two young creatures took
up the heavyburden of their lives, and
carried it with tolerable patience and
courage; and as in the case of our first
parents, exiled by a wonean's weakness from
the fair gardens of Paradise, so, though they
reaped thorns and thistles, and earned their
bread by the sweat of their brow, yet the
bitter-sweet memories of their lost Eden
abode with them, and in their poverty they
tasted many an hour of pure unsullied
love.
For they were young, and youth's courage
is high, and the burden of those days was
not yet too hard to be borne.
Nea longed to help lelaurioe, but her
pride, always her chief fault, came as a
stumbling.blook in her way; she could not
bear to go into the world and face strangers,
And Maurice on his side could not endure
the thought that his beautiful young wife
should be exposed to slights and humilia-
tions; so Nea's fine talents wasted by
misuse.
Still, even these scruples would have
faded under the pressure of severer needs,
had not children come to weaken Nea's
strength and keep her drudging at home.
Nea had never seen her father or heard
anything fromhim all this time. Maurice,
it was true, had humbled himself again
and again, but' his letters had all been
returned unopened.
But when her boy was born, Neale heart
softened by the joys of maternity, yearned
passionately for a reconciliation, and by
her husband's advice, she stifled all feelings
of resentment, and wrote as she had never
written before, as she never could write
again, but all in vain; the letter was
returned, and in her weakened state Nes
would have fretted herself to death over
that unopened Jotter if it had not been for
her husband's tenderness and her baby's
innocent ,face.
How the young mother doted on her
child 1 To her he was a miracle, a
revelation. Nature had opened &fount of
consolation in her troubles. She would lie,
patiently for hours on her 'couch, watching
her baby in his sleep. Maurice coming in
jaded and weary from his work would
pause on the threshold to admire the
picture. He thought his wife never looked
so beautiful as when she had the bey in
her amis.
And so the years passed on. Maurice
worked, and struggled, and pinched, till
his face grew old and careworn, and thehard
racking cough began to make itself heard,
and Nea's fine color faded, for the children
were coming fast now, and the days were
growing darker and darker.
By and by there was a baby girl, with
her father's eyes, and beautiful as a little
angel; then twin boys whom Nea kissed
and fondled for a few weeks, and then laid
in their little coffins; then another boy who
only lived two years; and lastly, after a
longelapse of time, another girl.
But when this one was born the on was
fast approaching. Mr. Huntingdon had
been abroad for a year or two, and had
just returned to Belgrave House—so Mr.
Dobson informed Nes when he dropped in
one evening on one of his brief visits—
and he had brought with him a young
widowed niece and her boy.
Nea remembered her cousin Erle Hunt-
ingdon and the dark -eyed girl whom be
had married and taken with him to Naples;
but she had never heard of his death.
Doubtless her father meant to put
Beatrice in her place, and make the younger
Erie his heir ; and Nea sighed bitterly as
she looked at her boy playing about the
room. Mr. Dobson interpreted the sigh
aright.
"Try again, Mrs. Trafford," he said,
holding out his hand as he rose; "humble
yourself in the dust, for the sake of your
children." And Nea took his advice, but
she never had any answer to .her letter,
and soon after that their kind old friend,
Mr. Dobson, died, and then everything went
wrong.
Maurice's employer gave up business,
and his successor, a hard grasping man,
found fault with Maurice's failing health,
and dismissed himas an incompetent clerk e
and this timeMaurice found himself without
friends.
For a little time longer he struggled on,
though broken in heart and health.
They left their comfortable lodgings and
took cheaper ones, and sold every article of
furniture that was not absolutely necessary;
and the day before the baby was born,
Nea, weeping bitterly, took her last relic,
her mother's portrait, from the locket set
with pearls from her neck, and asked
Maurice to sell the little ornament.
All through that long illness, though
Heaven only knows how, Maurice struggled
on0
Ill himself, he nursed his sick wife with
patient care and tenderness.
whispered entreaty that Nee 81=1:Tared to ItehBsoennes.iglehorhood, and here she gave daily
hear.
"Dearest," he had Paid, When she ,had pAlidaolitatstthroytr.
e:rs went on things
implored him te SAY What Phe could no to .4carae sleigh
comfort Iiim, there is one thing ; go to Nes, fon e her work interesting, her
your father. Yes, my darling,' as ehe little daughter Fern amornpanied her to
shivered at his Werds, "go to him YO.Pr, the Bohol, andshe taught her with her
eel ; 10 him. see your deer face that has pther pupils.
grown so thin and pale ; perhaps he will Presently the day' s labor became light
See for himself, and have pity, Tell him to her, and he poeld leek ferwaee to the
I am dyieg, and thee I cannot die in evening when her son, fetching her on his
peace motel he has promised to forgive you, way fTcm scheol, would escort her 119113.0—
and take care of you and the Children. a humble home it was true; but when she
You will do this for me, Nea, will :you lopked at her boy' e handsome fece, and
net? you know how1 ho.ye suffered,.1v,nci Fere'e innocent beauty, and felt her little,
will not refuse me," one' i caresses, se she climbed up into her
Had she over refused him anything? lap, the widow owned that her lot had its
Nea kissed the drawn pallid face without compensations.
a word, tied on her shabby bonnet, and But the crowning trial was yet to come;
took her baby in her arms—it was a puny, the lest drop of concentrated bitterness.
sickly creature, and wailed incessantly, Not long alter Maurice's death, Mr.
and ;the could not kayo it—then with the Huntingdon made his first overture of
tears blinding her poor eyes, she walked reconciliation through his lawyer.
rapidly through the dark streets, hardly His niece, Beatrice, had died suddenly,
feeling the cutting wind, and quite uncoil- and her boy was fretting sadly for his
redoes of the driving sleet that pelted her mother.
face with icy particles. Some one had pointed out to Mr, Hunt -
For her heart felt like a stone; Maurice ingdon one day a dark -eyed handsome boy
was dying; but no 1 he ehould not die: in deep mourning, looking at the riders in
witlt her own hands she would hold back Rotten Row, and had told him that it was
her beloved from the entrance to the dark his grandson, Percy Trafford.
valley; she would minister to his fainting Mr. Huntingdon had said nothing at the
soul the cordial of a tardy forgiveness, time, but the boy's face and noble bearing
though she should bo forced to grovel for it haunted him, he was so like his mother,
at her father's feet. And then all at once when as a child she had played about the
she suddenly ptopped, and found she was rooms at Belgrave House. Perhaps, stifle
clinging, panting for breath, to some area it as he might, the sobbing voice of his
railings, that the baby was crying miser. daughter rang in his ears, " Come home
ably on her bosom, and that she was with your ownNea, fathee ;" and in spite
looking through the open door t into her of his pride his conscience was beginning
father's hall. to torment him.
There was a carriage standing there, Nem spilled scornfully when she listened
and a footman was shivering as he walked to the lawyer's overtures. Mr. Huntingdon
up and down the pavement. No one took was willing to condone the past with regard
notice of the beggar-womanas they thought to her son Percy. He would take the boy,
her, and Nea, moved by a strange impulse educate him, and provide for him most
and desire for warmth and comfort, crept liberally, though she must understand that
a few steps nearer and looked, in. his nephew, Erle, would be his heir, still on
There was a boyin a velvet ttinic sliding every other point the boys should have
up and down thegileled balustrades ; and a equal advantages.
tall woman with dark hair, and a diamond "And Belgrave House, the home where
cross on her white neck, swept through the my boy is to live, Will be closed to his
hall in her velvet dress and xebuked him. mother," asked Nea, still with that delicate
The boy laughed merrily and went a few scorn on her face.
steps higher. The lawyer looked uncomfortable.
Beatrice and the yetuag Erle Hunting- " I have no instructions on that point,
don," said Nes to herself. And then a tall Mrs. Trafford; I was simply to guarantee
thin shadow fell across the doorway, and, that he should be allowed to see you
uttering S half-Stified ory, Nea saw her from time to time, as you and he might
faller, BMW his changed face, his gray hair wish it."
and bowed figure, before she threw herself I cannot entertain the proposal for a
in his wiiy. rnomene," she returned, decidedly but at
Ando, under the gaseight, withieervants his strong remonstrance she at last consented
watching them 'curio:lily, Mr. Huntingdon that when her bo yi was a little older, the
and his daughter met again. , One who matter should be laid before him; but no
stood neaehim gays an awfttl :pallor, like doubt as to his choice crossed her mind.
the leaked death, came over his face or Percy had always been an affectionate
aestenteewhen lie saw libt standing child; nothingwould induce WM. to give up
before him with her baby in him arms, but
in the next he would have moved on had
she not caught him by the arm.,
"Father'," she sobbed; " father, come
with me: Maurice is dying. eMy husband
is dying ; but he says he cannot die until
he has your forgiveness. Come home with
Me; come home with your own Nea, father,"
but he shook off her grasp, and began to
descend the steps.
" Here, Stephen .," he said, taking some
gold from his pocket; " give this to the
woman and send her away. Come, Beatrice,
I am ready."
Merciful Heaven! had this man a human
heart, that he should disown his flesh and
blood? Would it have been wonderful if she
had spoken bitter scathing words to the
unnatural parent Who was driving her
from his door? But Nes never spoke, she
only turned sway with a shudder from the
sight.of the proffered gold, and then draw.
ing her thin cloak ,still closer round her
child, turned wearily away.
True, she had sinned ; but hbr
ment was a hundred limes greater than
her sin she said to herself, and that was
all. What' a strange stunned quietness
was over her ; the pain and the fever seemed
all burnt out. She did not'suffer now. If
something that felt like an iron claw would
leave„ off gripping her heart, she could
almost ha,ve felt comfortable. Maurice
must die, she knew that, but something else
hadelied before him. She wondered if it
were this same heart of hers; and then
she noticed her baby's hood was decoked,
and stopped at the next lamp -post to put it
straieht and felt a vague sort of pity for
it, when she saw its face was pinched and
blue with cold, and pressed it closer to her,
though she rather hoped to find it dead
when she reached home.
"One less to suffer, and to starve,"
thought Nee.
Martrice's wistful eyes greeted her when
she, opened the clome but she only shook
her head and said nothing; what had she
to stere 8he kav e . her half:frozen infant
into a neighbor's care, and then sat down
seiddieve‘Maittice's face to her bosom, still
speechless he that awful apathy.
And there ,she sat hour after hour, till he
died peacefully in her Oriels, and hie last
words Were; " I believe in the forgiveness
,ofsins." ,
* * * * * *
When ehehad deoeied to wish for them,
friends:came around her in her trouhle and
ministered to her wants.
Kind faCes.folloived Maurice te his last
resting -place, endplayed him f rom a pauper's
grave.
The evidew and lib'ePleildren Were eldthed
in decept meeening, „end placed in comfor-
table lodgings. .
Nee never ranged from her silent apathy,
never 'Meted at there& thanked them.
Nee arid. her littleones had always plenty Their kindness had come too late for
of nourishieg food, though he himself her, she said la/herself; and it was not until
often event without the comforts he needed; long . afterwards that she knots, that she
he heti the children quiet, he did all and owed all this consideration to the family
More than all a woman would have of their kind 613e 'Wend Mr. Dobson,
done, before, worn out at last in body sepretly aided by thq purse of her cousin
and mind, he laid himself down, never to Beatrice Huntingdon ; who dare not coree,
rise again. , in person- te see her. .33uteby and by they
And Nea, going to him with her pinkly ' spoke very firmly and kindly to her. They
baby in her arms; saw a ice& on his faCepointed to her ehildreeeethey had placed
that terrified her; and knelt down by his her boy at ail -ettelletit sohoole-and told
side, While he told her between his ' her that for their sekee. she must live and
paroxysms of coughing whet little there work. If sho brooded longer in tlett sullen
Was to toll. I despair she Would die et go Mad; and they
She knew it all new t she knew the poor, , brought her baby to hert and watched its
brave heart hiod been slowly breaking for feeble arms trying iv bleep her neck; eace
year's, and hall given way at last; she the widow's paiinoilate Make rain on its
know what he had suffered to see the innocent face—theteats that saved the
woman he loved dragged down to the level poor hot 'btairie-and kileW she iees sit'ved ;
of his povetty, and made to endure subli and lOyand tee when they theright sho ha
bitternees of htinailicttien ; she knew.; when regainedher strength, theraeked hergently
it Was too late, that tht, Man was crushed. whitshe could do. Med 1" sho had etiffeeed
under the consequences Of his weakness, her fine talentto.XletteeTheyllednothing
that his remorse Was killing him ; and that but itnpoveriihed matetio,1 but at
he Would sal hi ii repentande with hie last they fOlitid her a l �ti6 With tine
life. And then came from his „pale lips a maiden ladiee just settiliente vschOot en
his mother.
But she became less confident as the
days went on ; Percy grew a little selfish
and headstrong, be wanted a man's will to
dominate him; his narroweconfined life
and the restraints that their poverty
enforced on them made him disoontented.
One day he encountered the lawyer who
had spoken to his mother—he was going
to her again, with a letter that Mr. Hunt-
ingdon had written to his daughter—and as
he looked at Percy, who was standing idly
on the doorstep, he put his hand on his
shoulder, and bade him show him the
way.
• N ea tensed very pale as she read the letter.
It was very curt and business -like; it
repeated the offer he had before made
with regard to her son Peroy, only adding
that ' for the boy's future prospects it
would be well not to refuse his terms.
This was the letter that, after a moment's
hesitation, Nea placed in her boy's
hands.
"Well, mother," he exclaimed,, and his
eyes sparkled with eagerness and excite-
ment, "1 call that splendid ; I shall be is
rich men one of these days, and then you
will see what I shall do for you, and Fern,
and Fluff."
"Do you mean that you wish to leave
us, Percy, and to live in your grandfather's
house ?" she returned, trying to speak
calmly. "You know what I told you—
you were old enough to understand what
your father suffered, and—and," with a
curious faintness creeping over her, "yon
see for yourself there is no mention of me
in that letter. Belgrave House is closed
to your mother."
"Yes, I know, and it is an awful shame,
but never mind, mother, I shall come and
Bee you very often ;" and then when the
lawyer had left them to talk it over, he
dilated with boyish eagerness on the
advantage to them all if he accepted his
grandfather's offer. His mother would be
saved the expense of his education, she
would not have to work so hard; he would
be rich himself, and would be able to help
them. But at this point she stopped
him.
Understand once for all, Percy," she
said with a sternness that he had never
seen in her, "that the advantage will be
solely for yourself; neither I nor your
sisters will ever accept help that comes
from Belgrave House; your riches will be
nothing to me, my son. Think again before
you give up your mother."
He would never give her up, he said,
with a rough boyieh caress; he should see
her often—often, and it was wicked, wrong
to talk about refusing his help; he would
talk to his grandfather and niake him
ashamed' of himself—indeed there was no
end to the glowing plans he made. Nea's
heart sickened as she heard him, she knew
his boyish selfishness and restlessnen
were leading him astray, and some of the
bitterest tears she ever shed were shed that
night.
But from that day she ceased to plead
with him, and before many weeks were
over Percy had left his mother's hurnlole
home, and, after a short stay at Belgrave
House, was on his way to Eton with his
cousin Erle Huntingdon.
Percy never owned in his secret heart
that he had done a mean thing in giving
up his mother for the splendors of Belgrave
House, that the thought that her son was
living in the home that was closed to her
was adding gall and bitterness to the
widow's life ;ho thought he was proving
himself a dutiful eon when he comae to see
her so Often, though the visits were scarcely
all he wished thorn to be.
True, his mother never reproached him,
bead always Welcomed him kindly, but hor
lips wore closed on all that feinted to hie
home life.. She could . speak of his school-
fellOws and stildies, but of his grandfather,
Mid et his hew pony and fine gun she
would net speak, or even care to hoar about
theril• When he tool( her his bleYish gifts
they were quietly but firmly returned to
hien. Been poo e little Florence, Pr Fluff as
they called hoer, was obliged to give bacle
the blue-eyed doll that he had broright for
her. Fluff had fretted so about the loss of
hp fICP that her Mother 4414 Ixmglit her
another.
Remy parried away his gifts, mid did.
not come for a long time. Hie mother's
white wistful lace peemed to pet him in
the wrong. fe Any ethet fellow wpuld have
done the pante under the circumstances,"
thought Nig, sullenly; "1 think my
mother is too hard, on me ;,," but even his
conscieece paisgeve hi1n, when he would
sae her terse away sometimes with the
team in her eyes, after one of his boast-
ing speeches. He was too young to be
hardened. He knew, yes, surely he must
have known? that he was grieving the
tenderest heart in the world, and one day
he would own that not all his grandfather's
wealth could compensate him for being a.
traitor to his mother.
(To bo continued.)
Care of Preserved Fruit.
Keeping fruit or any Provision depends
on three things. It must be sound to begin.
A speck of decay or add change will de-
velop ferment in a kettle of fruit. Second,
the jars or cans must be air -tight,. The
objeot of steaming the fruit is to expel the
air and arrest the change in the juice, which
would naturally proceed to ferment. Aix
penetrates in finer ways than we can dis-
cern, and needs much less than the crevice
of a hair or pin's point to enter and spoil
the contents. Glass that is free from
cracks or air bubbles, well -glazed stone-
ware, free from flaws, yellow ware, or
strong, dark earthen Jars, will keep the
fruit from the air, provided it is sealed with
wax, putty, or bladder, soaked and left to
shrink on the mouth of the jars. Cans with
screw tops and rubber rings are apt to have
slight defects, which prevent perfect sealing,
and cannot be depended on without wax.
Third, the jarsmust be kept in a dry, dark,
cold place, very little above freezing. A
shelf in a furnace -warmed cellar or store-
room opening from a kitchen is not the
place to preserve fruit. It may be put up
in the best manner, and yet spell through
keeping in the light or where it is not cool.
Glass cans should be wrapped in paper,
buried in sand or sawdust or kept in a dark
closet. Packed with plenty of chaff, oats,
dry sand or sawdust, or dry sifted ashes,
most preserves will stand freezing weather
without injury, but each can needs at least
six inches of non -conducting material
about it on all sides, for protection. A pit
on one side of the cellar, dug below tlae
reach of frost, and lined with boards, with
straw or ashes between there and its walls,
will keep preserves from heat or freezing.
A pit dug in the cellar, font feet below the
level of its floor, well drained and lined as
above, will prove the best place for keeping
small quantities of preserves, enough for a
single family.
Chicago Fifty-three Years Ago.
Capt. F. McCumber, of Burlington,Wis.,
who is said to be tho oldest lake captain
now living (he is 82); says in a recent letter
to the Hon. John Wentworth, of Chicago:
"1 came to Chicago in July, 1834, in com-
mand of the schooner Thomas Hart, of
Carthage, on the GenesseeRiver; there wail
no harbor then, and we lay one mile from
the mouth of the river and discharged our
cargo with a scow at the forks of the river
—mostly Indian goods. There were many
Indians at Chicago at that time. We went
from Chicago to St. Joseph; got into the
river, and discharged the rest of our cargo
there—Indian supplies—shovelled in sand
for ballast, and left for Buffalo. Ithink the
first shipment of wheat from Lake Michi-
gan was made in that year. The wheat
was stored at St. Joseph. I tried to get it;
went up the river to Cassopolis on the
steamer David Crockett, to find the owner,
but he had °entreated with one of Oliver
Newbeery's vessels the Marengo, Capt
Dingley, master, who died the same year of
cholera at Detroit. This is about all the
information I can give you. I am 82 years
old and my rnemery is failing. I am
here on a little farm quietly waiting the
end."
A Very Cool Burglar.
A young woman of Portland, Me., awoke
the other night to find a man ransacking
her bureau. She screamed, but the bur-
glar, with great coolness, said: " Keep
cool, SiS ; I won't hurt you. All I want is
the trinkets." Her scream, however, had
alarmed the house, and the burglar fled.
He left his hat behind in his flight, and
the gentleman of the house, in hopes that
it might serve as a olue to his detection,
hung it on the hat rack in the hall. The
family than retired again to rest. In the
morning it was found that the hat was
gone. The burglar had returned later in
search of his head -gear, found it, and once
more made off unmolested.
Nothing New Under the Sun.
Shakspeare seems to have been very
well up in most of the slang phrases of the
present day. In "Henry VIII." we have
"too thin ; in "King John," come off 1"
and "you are too green and fresh ;" in "A
Winter's Tale," "What, never?" and
although he does not exactly lute the ex-
clamation rats 1 we have in "Hamlet," "A
mal! a rat 1" which is pretty near it. John
Bunyan used the phrase, "it is a cold day"
in connection with adversity, so it would
seem that Solomon wad not far from the
truth when he said, "there is nothing new
under the inin," or words to that effect.—
Boston Courier.
The Syracuse Standard tells a pretty
story of a little girl, who was recently re-
primanded for conduct which her mother
did not think became her. The little one,
who took refuge in the nursery to shed her
tears, was shortly afterward overheard in-
dulging in a soliloquy. " Mamma is real
mean, she said, " and I don't like her any
more. No, I don't. If she didn't live hero
"—[with emphasis en the first person,
singular number)—" shoulen't invite her
to come te my house."
In St. John County, Fla., a few dap; ago,
while a little ..yeitr.old girl was playing in
the yard the familyhoard piercing cries,
and on running to investigate found the
child lying on the ground, while on her
breast stood a rooster crowing triumphantly.
One of the little girl El OYOS had been peeked
out.
•
In Edinburgli a disused railroad tutineI
is te be .ittilized for'reisingniushrootnie