The URL can be used to link to this page

Home My WebLink AboutThe Advocate, 1887-10-13, Page 2I. • Itnio• 44: SIR HUGH'S LgUS. " Nay,' he said, ''quie*1Y, 47/ em*Mily, speaking for your good. r, 'Y °nate young,, Crystal, but you must be Pernicious, indeed your manner told 'me eri,last 'night that you have grace, be ehty, and talents, triple gifts that the world adores You will be its idel. Make your own election, then, my child, for you are now a woman. I will never seek to influence you, I am only a humble pried. What has such a one to do with a hell•rnorn queen; the World's ways ha venever been ray ways, for from my youthl have determined that "for me and my hgneei We Will Berle the Lord.," ' "His calin steadfast voice awed me; every word seemed to rebuke my vanity and presumption. Ah, I saw it all now. Baby was disappointed with my choice; he had hoped—he had hoped otherwise. " We had reached the end of our walkby this time. Before us was the poor cottage where Lettie White was dying. 1 took my hand from Baby's arm and sat down on the little stone bench by the beehives. Rely seemed to linger a moment, as though he expected me to speak to him, but I remained silent and he turned away with a quick sigh and went into the house. Soon after I heard his voice through the upper window, where the white curtains were flapping in the breeze, and Lettie's weak tones answering him. " Before me was a field of crimson clover; some brown bees were busily at work in it. There were scarlet poppies too gleaming in the hedge down below; the waves were'lapping on 'the sands with a soft splash and ripple ; beyond was the sea vast and crystalline, merged in mistyblue. Did I hear it with a dull whirring of repetition, or was it the voice of my own conscience; ' For me and my house, we will serve the Lord'.' ' • ' • • "Raby came out presently, and we walked home, still silent. The dignity of his office was upon him ; his lips were moving, perhaps in petition for the dying girl. " When we reached the house he went up to his room. The evening came. ,1 got out our German books—Raby and I were studying together—and presently he joined me. In his absence of mind he had forgot- ten all about the ball, as I knew he would, and we were both absorbed in Schiller's magnificent Wallenstein when Margaret entered, .looking what Hugh Redmond called his 'Marguerite of Marguerites,' his pearl among women. "Raby started and looked perplexed. " What, is it so late? You are dressed, Margaret, and this careless child hasnot commenced her toilet. Pray help her Maggie, she will be dreadfully late.' "Margaret gave me a wistful smile. " The carriage is here already,' she answered, quietly, and Mrs. Montague is waiting... Crystal is not going to the ball, • Not going'2' . He turned and . looked at me,,our eyes met, and then he under- stood. ‘" Does not Margaret look lovely,' I asked in assumed ,carelessness, when the hall door closed, and he came back to the room. "For answer he took me in his arms. " Not hall so fair as my Esther,' he said tenderly, ;though she is not wearing her regal dress. 'I thank God,' and here his voice grew low and solemn. -11 thank God, Crystal, that my darling has chosen the better part that 'shall ,not be taken away from her.'. . CHAPTER XXV. . GO BACK TO BABY. o claim grand eyes, extinguished in a storm, Blown out like lights o'er melancholy seas, Though shrieked for by the shipwrecked. 0 my dark My cloud—to go before me every day, While I go ever towards the wilderness,' I would that you could see me bare to tbe soul. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. "Things went on very happily rfor a tong time after this. The church at Sandy- cliffe wile finished; Rely in; up his curacy, and read hinaself ; and then came the day when Margaret and I heard him preaoh. • "Shall I ever forget that day -it we Eastertide—and all that belonged to it? the last unclouded Sunday that was:ever to rise on me; the tiny flower-deokedohurch already crowded.with worshippers, 'the memorial window that Raby and Margaret had put in, sacred to the memory of their father, with ito glorious colors reflected on the pavement in stains �f ruby and violet and lastly, the grave beautiful.face of the young vicar as he looked round upon his little flock for the first time, his eyes resting for a moment as though in silent benediction on the vicarage seat. ' • "Were I to tell you what I thought of that sermon, you might think my praise partial, but there were many there, Hugh Redmond among them, who commented afterwards on the eloquence and vivid power of the preacher. Hugh Redmond had accompanied us techurch, for he and Margaret had been engaged some months, and they were always together: He declared that that sermon had made a deep impres- sion on him. "Many were affected that day by Baby's deep searching eloquence, but none more so than a lady who sat alone under thepulpit, and who drew down her crape veil that no one might see her tears " I knew her well; she was a childless widow who had lately come to live at Sandycliffe in a pretty cottage about half a mile from the Grange, and, with whom Margaret had become very intimate—a fair gentle -looking woman who had gone through much trouble,and who wished to devote her life to good works ; and as I looked at her now, ray own eyes misty with sym- pathy, did I ever imagine that the time was fast approaching when I should wrong her with the bitterest hatred, and even seek to lift my hand against her. "And yet you Were ono of God's dear saints, Mono! "The service over, we lingered for a moment in the shady churchyard, Hugh and Margaret and I, until Rely should join us. He came out afloat, a little pale and tired -looking. Margaret met him, her este shining like stare. " 'Oh, Raby,' she faltered, 'God has given nae my heart's desire' He smiled, but his hand went out to the irl standing silently behind him. , " 'What deo My child say / ' he Wins: pored, when the others had gone on b. little; but / had no &newer ready, he was riO geed, so far above me. With a sudden impulse lifted the kind hand to raY lipe s though he Fere n king. J.*1‘, 1`,„ * Ref* wag VerY, Mame i5n his Prefeeelen. There was little to do in Sandycliffe, but he offered himselfas Peadinter to the viectr, ef Vierrepoint, and tile there was a large peer population there, he and Margaret, and Mrs. Grey, fOuntl plenty of soppier their energies. " Mrs. Grey had no ties, she was rioh and lonely, and she sought relief from her siok heart in ministering to the needs of others. Her health was delicate, and the air of Sandycliffe suited her—shehad taken a fancy to the place end the pretty cottage she had rented was more to her taste than her house at South Kensington. "Margaret and she were always together, their natures were congenial to each other, and a warm friendship grew up between them; Raby was also much interested in the young widow. 1 beard him say more than once that she was a rare creature, and so humble in her own estimation that one would never have guessed how cultivated and accomplished she really was; ' her, man- ners are so perfectly gentle,he went "on, • no wonder Margaret is glad to have found such a friend.' "1 began to think she was Relay's friend too, for nothing se'emed to be done in Sandycliffe without Mrs. Grey—' out Mrs, Grey,' as Baby called her. Scarcely a day passed- without seeing her at the Grang, and very often, as I knew, Baby called at the cottage. "When I was with him their converse, tion was always about Pierrepoint, about the workmen's club Raby had started and the mothers' meeting that was Mrs. Grey's hobby; she was certainly, in spite of her weak health, a most active creature; Raby always seemed to defer to her opinion. He told Margaret that Mrs. Grey was one of the most clear.headed women he had ever met, that her large -minded views were always surprising him. I used to listen in silence to all this. I liked Mrs. Grey, but I began' to be jealous of her influence I thought Raby was too much guided by her judgment—perhaps he was fascinated by her sweet looks. "Small beginnings make large endinge.' 'Behold how great a matter a little fire kind- i leth.' Even n a small country place like Sandycliffe there are busy and mischievous tongues. Presently a whisper reached my ears that fanned the smouldering embers of discontent within to a scorching flame. "Raby was a young unmarried man, and Mrs. Grey was young and attractive, what if people declared that her heart was i buried n her husband's grave, and that she would never marry again; they knew young widows always said those sort of things. Perhaps the vicar would induce her to change her mind some day. It would be such an excellent match, they went on; they were evidently eat out' for each other, both so good; and then she .was rich, it would be such a fortunate thing for Mr. Ferrers, especially when his sister left him; and then looking at me, they supposed I should go to Redmond Hall with my cousin when she married. People used to talk like this to us both. Margaret used to laugh as though she were paused at the notion, and she seemed to expect rne to laugh too; then she got a little indignant, and contradicted the report gravely. Nothing of the kind could ever happen, she said—she wished those busybodies would leave Raby and Mona alone; Mona washer friend not his. But somehow I did not believe her. Fern, you .look at me reproachfully, you think I ought to have been wiser; but how could I know; I was Raby's adopted child, his pet, but Mrs. Grey was more his equal in age and she was very pretty. Her fair delicate style of beauty, and her extreme softness and gentleness inight be dangerously attractive to a man like Rely, and I feared—I distrusted her. "Alas!in a little time I learnt to look upon her as my deadliest rival; to hear her name on his lips would send a jealous thrill through me. "They were always together, at least it seemed so to me ; but perhaps I was wrong. By and by I dropped all pretence of parish work; it did not suit me, I said. Roby seemed grieved, but he was true to his word and did not try to influence me: Perhaps he thought I was restless and was pining for excitement and gaiety. Alas he little knew I Would wander miles away, that I might not encounter them coming up the village street together, or witness the frank cordial smile with which they parted. Mono's look, her touch,, her soft vibrating voice set every nerve on edge. I was pin., ing with a disease for which I knew no name and no remedy, and which was prey- ing on my health and spirits. " And worst of all, I was completely Misunderstood. When in the unequal struggle my appetite failed and sleep forsook me, and a sort of a fever kept me restless and irritable, and still no physical illness was at the rocit, they misconstrued the symptoms and attributed my depression to another cause. I saw in their looks that they distrusted me; they thought my old enemy was coming back, and redoubled their gentleness and care. Then Rely would speak tenderly to me, till every word sounded like a caress; and Margaret would follow me from piece to place like some guardian spirit, as though she did not wish to lose sight of inc. But they never guessed the cause—how could they? for aa the weeks went on, a cold forbidding haughtiness hid their child's suffering heatt from them. t would die, I said to myself recklessly, before they should, guess my secret. "Baby's face grew sad and then some. what stern. I knew the old 'doubts were harrassing him; he feared their quiet life was irksome to my youth, that I was fret- ting in secret for the gaieties and triumphs I had renounced. "One day we three were sitting atlunch. eon together; • I was playing with the food on ray plate to prevent them noticing my want of appetite, as though I could ever evade Baby's eyes, and longing to escape from the room, for I felt morethan usually miserable. "Raby was Watching Me, I could see, though hie conversation wag directed to Margaret. She had been talking about the new sohools that Mrs. Grey proposed build- ing at Pierrepoint. "She wants to sell her house at South Kensington,' she said; ,she never meanti to live there again. It is a great pity, / tell her, 1 or it is such a comfortable house and so beautifully tarnished. But she will have it that shefeele happier in her cottage ; how good she is, Baby.' " (Yes, indeed, hers is almost et perfect cheractety he replied; she is so strong and yet so womanly, so very, very geritle. 4f Something in Baby's words touched too eeneative a chord, and after a vain attempt to control myself, I ouddenlyfininit into hysterical tears, and eo,left,„the ,rhorp, They It thought it was my, strange; temper, but I was only miserable thiiiihe enemy-- , , , my Philistine—was upon !nee when bp was °1urkininambu34f°rt47-3,3'Y46P m; weakness wouldrend1 4n easy Prey. "Lel me go on quickly, for the remem- brance of that day oyerpeWeri3metTileYmOver came near me. Baby always treated me hire - self at such times, e.nd sometiMert he f,would not illow Margaret to come to the; it was et) now, and yet her dear face and sympathy might have saved me. I sobbed myself quiet and then I lay on the couch in the morning-rpona, feeling strangely ill. I was faint and sick. I had eaten nothing, and I wanted food and wine, and to be hushed and comforted like a child.;" "and no one came near me. Of course not 1 they thought it was a fit of the old passion. No doubt Rely was in. the village talking it over with Mona. " It grew towards evening—cool quiet evening, but there was no quiet in my heart. 1 was burning with inward fever. I had had little sleep the night before, something odd and tumultuous seemed rising in my brain ; a gleam 'of fair hair was blinding me. He loves fair women, I thought, and he calls me his dark eyed Esther. Oh, Baby, I hate her! You shall never marry her! You shall never call her your darling I I felt as though I should kill her firat ; for, indeed, I was nearly wild with peeSi011, they had left me too long alone. "Presently the door opened, and Ra came in. He looked very grave, I though as he sat down beside me. His quiet glance recalled me to myself. Crystal,' he said, gently, have you been ill again, my dear?' They always called the paroxysms 'illness' now, but the word displeased me. " ''Where is Margaret 2 ' I asked, sullenly. cannot talk to you, Raby. I fira weak, and you do not understand. If 'I am ill, as you say, you should not keep Margaret from me. " She is at the schools,' he returned, soothingly, I left her with Mrs. Grey— they will be here directly; but, Crystal, my darling, before they come in I want to have a little talk with you. You are better now, are you not? I want to tell you what I have decided to do for my child's welfare. I am going to send her away!' " I sprang up with an exclamation of dismay, but he put me back firmly and quietly on the couch as though I were a child, and went on with his speech. " Crystal,' he said, rather sternly, '1 claim obedience as your guardian; I claim it legally and morally.' Never had ,he spoken so severely before. I am doing what costs me a great sacrifice. I am going to send you away from us for a little while for your own good; for your own peace and happiness. Alas! I see plainly now, how we have failed to secure either. I tried to speak, butI could not. I crushed my hands together as though they were a vice, as I listened. " 'Heaven knows,' he continued, sadly, 'how I have tried to do my duty by you, and how Margaret has tried too • how we have loved you, prayed and dared for you, never thinking of ourselves, but only of you. What have we done that you should hide your unhappiness from us Why did you not come to me and tell me frankly, and like a brave girl, that the sacrifice I asked was too great for you to yield; that your youth and temperament demanded a different life to mine; that the quiet and monotony were killing you; would any- thing have been too hard for your brother's love?' ° • • . I shivered at the word. Oh, .Raby, why—why did you utter it? who were, who never could be a brother of mine. He had never used that word before; it bore a terrible meaning to me now. " I have spoken to Dr. Connor,' he went on more quickly, 'and his opinion Coincides with mine; and so I , have arranged it all with Mrs. Grey; surely a kinder Or, a sweeter maul never breathed, not even our own Margaret. You ;are, to go abroad under her care for six months; Dr. Connor advises it. Yes, it will be hard for us, but never fear, my darling,lhe time will soon pass.' (To be continued.) When to be Itlarrled. In a letter to the Sunday Herald on .the marriage question, Ella Wheeler Wilcox makes the following sage remarks : • It is an erroneous idea of romantic minds that early youth is the season of deeVand passionate emotion. Physicians and, the wise men of the Catholic Church, however, know that the emotions of women in .our American climate are most fully developed 'between the ages of 25 and 85. The Church guards during that time with especial Caro all those destined to a life of celibacy, knowing full well that they are more sus- ceptible to temptation than ,at an earlier and naore undeveloped age. . It would seem, then, from a purely scientific standpoint that an 'attachment formed after 25 would be far Mere intense and more enduring than one formed in the unripe period of immature youth. Physically our American women dri not fully develop until the age of 25. Given a healthful mode of life, employment for the mind, and sufficient out -door exercise, and they are far more attractive at that age than at 18. Happy is the man who wins the heart of such a woman, with her ripened beauty, her developed emotions and her wise appreciation of the really worthy things of life. ' In the 'United States Court at Boston, a decision was rendered yesterday morning sustaining the demurrer of the Boll Tele. phone Company against the Governtnent suit and thecae° was dismissed. A Dakota farmer laid upon the nearest editor's table a vegetable that weighed five pounds ten ounces. After all tho agri- cultural sharps of the village had tried to tell what it was, the guesses ranging from a rutabaga to a pumpkin, the farmer told them it was a radish, and proved it to them after the manner of proving a pudding. At Newport, R. I., yesterday, the Supreme Court granted a divorce to Mrs. Henry A. Hulbert, jun., of New York. This settles an interesting case of fashionable New York society parties. I° 814 V114.37314.•Ale X741111'X. A. 2- 0404 .virinnali 47-0 60'mmpene4 a Cutler 'to Fait! a Bath., One of the Providence Boston 0ketelnts ii,aPPende,.4 " Mrs.Y. is a brillont, Boston ,Wonian 'of 'alytiritrit executive'ribltty; shrcwd wit '9,aith4 ;di" ,h1r84,14-19ratinitlisitYociteltho;e,,,,ter ,41?leipe7, Mg,)ip .of aetahliehrctent in. the • westr 'Ywelleerr,e aMnr.7 passeo div9h; some tertinainnethaB Cigfrehe at many, people.. ,One,day,there was b brought to Mrs. Y. the card of an English gentle- man, aPeoratefileciby a„let$er of intx•oduc. tion from friends of the Y.'s abroad. The hostesswentdown stairs and greeted, the guest cordially. " We are so accustomed to travellers here," • she said; = 44 that We know just what to do with them. We ex- pect everybody to arrive travel,ritained and exhausted, and we , everybody take a hath the first thing. I apt:Ise:6 the servant before X• °erne down, and every'. thing is, all ready." "But," 'statinnerecl the stranger, "I cannot think of putting you to so much, trouble. " Oh, I know just how you, feel," interrupted Mrs. "0 bath is the ^ only thing that re. stores me to my- norinal condition when I've been travelling; and you have come right through from Bosten." The, miest demurred, but Mrs. Y. wee too executive and too truly` hospitable to allow his scrupleeto prevent the carrying out of her kindly intent. The Englishman was shown upstairs to the bath -room, where it, is to be presumed he combined with the progress of his tenet refit:alone upon the originality and practicality of American hospitality. In due time the guest, de- scended again to the parlor, where Mrs. Y. awaited hina. "1 hope you found every- thing to your mind," she said. Oh, yes," he replied, " I have had a delightful bath, and now I must bid you good afternoon, as I have to catch a train." " What ?" cried the hostess aghast.; you are not going ?" 'Unfortunately I must ; I only stopped over a train to Call on you." " Mercy !" she exclaimed in dismay ; " I thought you had come to remain. - Yon certainly cannot go away when I haven't seen you at all 1" " I really must," was the reply, " but I assure ' you I have had a most refreshing bath, and I shall always reraember :with sincere pleasure your unique hospitality." The story was too good to keep, and Mrs. Y.,told it at her own expense, greatly to the;entertainment of her friends, who declared that this fashion of entertaining callers was one which deserved to be widely :introduced, as it would solve many a perplexing question of the proper method of disposing of guests who were not easy to amuse. - When the Congregation Nods. A bequest of Richard Doyery, of Farm - cots, England, dated 1659, had in view the payment of 8 shillings annually to the church of Cleverly, Shropshire, for the payment of e person to keep the people awake. ' On the 17th of April, 1725, ;John Budge bequeathed to. the parish of Trysull, in Shropshire, 20 shillings a year, that a poor mahraight be employed to go about the church during the summer and keep the people awake. At Acton church, in Cheshire, about thirty years ago one of the °hutch wardens used to go round in the church during service with a huge wand inohis hand, and if any of Abe congregation were asleep they were instantly awakened by a tap on the lead. At Dun church, in Warwickshire, a per- son bearing a stout wand, shaped like a hay -fork at the end, stepped stealthily up and down the aisles, and whenever he saw an individual asleep he touched him so effectually that the spell was broken—this being sometimes dole by fitting the fork to the nape of the neck. A more playful method is said to have been used in another church, where the beadle went round theedifice 'during service carrying a long otaff, at one end* of which was a fox's brush and at the other a knob. With the former he gently*ickled the faces of the female sleepers' while on the head of the male offenders hebestowed with the knob a smart rap. Thaokeray's Views of Death: f,4. I don't pity, .anybody Whte leaves the world, r not even at fair young girI in, her ,X pity- those remaining. On ,her journey, , if ,it pleases, Gred to send- her, depend on it' there's' no elide) for grief, that's - britqin:•attithly. crniditien. Out of, our sternly •life,'. and brought , Z neater ,the Divine light and warmth,,there. must be e serene climate. you ,faney sailiitg into ,the ' 'Wefild you cafe' about going cha the Voyeige,•but for *hadear.tioults left on the other shore ?, But 4we„ shan't be parted .froztythem, no donit,l, though they are from us,. Ada a 41,tile more Intel: ligence to that vihiali We possess even 'art 'We are, and why Shouldn't:We' be ;With out friends though even so fait off,' Why presently, the body removed, shouldn't we personally be anywhere at will --proper. ties of creation, like the electric something (spark is it ?) that thrills all round; the globe :simultaneously? and if round the globe why not Ueberall? .and,the body being removed or elsewhere disposed of and developed, sorrow and its opposite, crime and the reverse, ease and disease, desire and dislike, etc., go along with the body—a lucid intelligence remains, a per- ception ubiquitous.—Front the Thackeray Letters in Scribner's for Okober. Seventy/414o years ago Robert Tirrell, of Rhode Island, then a soldier in the British army, deserted and came to America. The old man, who is 98 years old, has just received a pardon from the granddaughter of the king he deserted, and is going back to the old country to dio among his kins: folk. William Milani a merchant of St. Joseph. Mo., has gone to Australia tomarry a young lady whom ho hell never seen, but with whom the engagetnent was brought about by correspondence. The young lady is a handsome heiress, and Milan is also rich. Mrs. Foshay (to prospective nursery maid)—" You are fond of children, of course ?" P N. M.—" Fond of 'em? I ehould say I Was, ma'am. If I hadn't been I wouldn't a Mimed my sister's nine Stung ones that Was owp With acettlet fever. till every blessed one of thtini died, ma'am, and buried the last of 'em a Week comerriday." SACRED '1 4 7.••••••••• S" of 4110014.4" kT51444341IY Flar Secular App." - Paye the ',ctsoai 040 ver'i!' of the,r0 York Graphic ,tfo4Mueleiah 'who is knot much in the 40,000004r thet*Md•of exercise went te:church.3 on „Sunday and, desiring to experience are ranch novelty as - possible, he did not go to any beautifully appointed testhetic Episcopal service, nor • did he feed his spiritual nature on the • dranaatio embodiment of the Christian religion given. by the, Roman „ Oetholio Church. No, he wanted to do the thing up brown now that he was in it, and 'for that end he felt it to be necessary to install himself in' themore or vlese"thaboilifettable pew of one of the most protesting of Pro- , Umtata sects: `NOW, twhathe fdinaditnost curious in his unfamiliar experience was. the familiarity of considerable portions of it. One of the opening hymns • was, " G could I speak the matchless worth," and he wactsteuok all of a heap" to, • hear this ining to the- mangled remains of a duet in Mozart's opera, " Die ' Zatiber- flote," wherein Pontine and the bird' catcher, Papaveno extol " The manly heart with love olerflowing," posing together before - the footlights.. It was net , such a shook,. but it was still a surprise when later he - heard," Thou Art; 0 God, the Life and Light" sung to " Consolation," one of Mendelssohrns Songs 'Without Words." If there is anything that definitely dis— proves the Wagnerian theory of the special,. intrinsic significance of music in itself and altogether independent of association, it is this habit'of hyninlidok' rnaketa of put- ting sacred words to all sorts of secular - music. Whether or not there is signifi- cance in the /male itself—and as even the - hymn -book makers have not yet turned " Captain links" to ;account, there is still, a little ground for the belief that there is— there,is a great deal of significance in it by association, and musical associations are - very strong, and it is pretty hard on people of retentive ears to find their most sacred, moods broken in upon by tones *hat have hitherto lightened altogether different hours. " The Lord is my Shepherd" is often sung to a slightly disguised version of that popular air," Scenes that are Brightest;" in Wallace's opera Of "Mari - tons." The air, " Nearer, My God, to Thee," has now -become so associated with the hymn that the shook would probably be with most of Us to find it reunited with ita original mate, " Oft in the Stilly Night." The only explanation of the possibility of this state of things is that the people who, go to church don't, as e class, .hear any music anywhere die. They Had Got Used to Baples. "Say," said a woman wearing a faded , yellow dress; as she came out of a Western . Dakota house which stood near the road, as we drove up, " you didn't see no young 'Ilea down the road, I reckon?" " " Couple o' mine missin' again, guess," and she surveyed a good sized flock who were playing around the house. " Or, hold on, I guess there ain't, either." She began singling them out with her finger, saying " One, two, three—stand still, you brats, till I count you l—four, five—come back. here, Ophelia, till yer counted—six, seven, 'eight, an' two at school makes ten, an' the baby is 'leven, an' two out'n the field is thirteen. .A.I1 right, stranger, they're all here. I 'lowed two or three o"em had lit, out, but the census is correot ! " " You have a large family, madame". " Lawks, . till you can't rest! An' say, do you know what's a - fact, gen'l'men, when the fust one, Sheridan—he's out'n the field shuckin' corn now—when he was a baby what d'ye think me an' the old man used to do to him ?" " Give it up." " Used to wake him up to see him laugh I Yes, sir, ; regular thing every time he went to sleep l Sometimes one big fool of us an' sometimes the other would sneak up an' chuck him under the chin, an' say ' Wake ut, no, tootsy wootsy, and' laugh oo cunnin"ittle laugh for:oopaph l'" "Didn't never wake up any of the other twelve?" "Well,not hardly, stranger—we knovi, a powerful sight mor'n we did. Here. Washington, quit hurtin' yer little sister or I'll give you a switchin'' you'll remembcr till yer 100 years old !"— Chicago Tribune. At the Sunday School. Teacher--Williain, what is the •'Golden • Text, to.day ? , Willia—Dunno. - 'mTeacher—It is " Watch and—" whet ehi6?, , Teacher --Think again. What did your napci, do jut.* before breakfast this morning \Villiom' (With animation)—Kieraed thateina How'd you know? , :we,* ite 'Whistle( . ,Loid lady (to grocei's boy) --Don't you know lanY; that it is,yery rmie to ' whistle when dealing with'a lady? Bey--.-That'ewhat the boss told me to de. • Old iady-Teld you toi whistle?. ,13oy.:,Yesrin.;,;11e said.. if we ever Bold you anything. 'we'd have tewhistle for the Money; ' ' some Excuse for Him. Oh, no, ma'am," ',pleaded the 'tramp,. "foirinity think my life all sunshine, but Rain% Wherever I se,/ am beset with. dangers. In short, ma'am, I carry my life- in‘rdlAylah, exclaimed hie temporary hostess, "that accounts for year not wash- ing your hands. You don't date to do it for sfeerater de,,,viti .youiseif."—Bostoa frran. , A run was precipitated upon a having bank in Binghamton,No Y., on Monday last by a practicaljoke," and it took the efforts Of some Of the Solidest Men in the Laity to stop it: A French countryman was asked Why he Was so bitter spinet ono of his neigh- boM. " Because he is a boor : Ile comes too= holise half 0 dozen tiraeriit day, arid ,.-Would you believe it 7—he has never asked once to see Mit pig 1" Surveyors veno•akestibodivi ing the town- ships neat Lake Temisoarning; preparatory to their being opened fcit settlement, report Very favorably on the quality of the land: , A.clviode feent tingierh say that the Sul- tan Of, Morocco is dead, Col. Blanton Drinciiii, of ,Rontucky; in rin article in the Toledelilarie, proves ito his Oton satisfaction that the Second corithigo Christ willoccur At D. 1013.14. •