Millheim Journal. (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, April 08, 1880, Image 1

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    VOL. LIV.
-. - ■
C. T. Alexander. C. M. Bower.
Office In Garman's now building.
Office on Allegheny Street.
Northwest corner of Dlttnond.
D. G. Bush. S. H. Yocum. D. H. Hastings.
High Si reet. Opposite First; National Bank.
Practices in all the courts of Centre County.
Spec al attention to Collections. Consultations
In German or English.
All bus ness promptly attended to. Collection
of claims a speciality.
J A. Beaver. J. W. Uephart.
Office on Alleghany Street,, North of High,
Office on Woodrlng*s Block, Opposite Court
Consultations In English or German. Office
in Lyon'a Building, Allegheny Street.
Office In the rooms formerly occupied by the
late w. P. Wilson.
A. WALTER, Cashier. DAV. KRAPB, Pres.
Satisfaction Guaranteed.
A Needless Alarm.
There are but few, if any insects, either
in the larval or perfect state, but what may
be eaten with perfect safety. Some, how
ever, have oils in them which forbid their
being eaten in quanties at a time, . because
of what is called their richness. All may
be eaten in limited quanties. The so-called
centipedes, or thousand legged worms, are
effen by some of the human race, and may
be by all, so far as anything poisonous is
concerned. What is called the great white
grub, the young of the May beetle which,
in great numbers, are often ploughed up in
our fields and gardens, is a favorite dish
with some of the most enlightened people.
The Mahometan loathes the oyster as we
do the scorpion or spider, and says of the
Cnristian, "he is a dirty dog, because he eats
oysters." It is our prejudice, ignorance
and education that makes us view these
things with loathing and fear. I have my
self seen a schoolteacher, in my boyhood,
eat of the rattlesnake. The silk worms are
extensively eatem in some countries, and
snails are much thought, of by some persons
as are oyster by us. And so with spiders,
so generally feared. They are reckoned
equal to any dish that can be made up by
some people. If insects were poisonous we
should destroy ourselves "daily," so to
speak, for we are constantly taking them
iDto our systems in what we eat; that is,
living matter in the form of the infusoria,
the insect larvae or some other shape, kind
or form. Let attention be given to tlie con
dition of the vegetable itself, the:efoie,
rather than to the worm, for a person had
better eat a pound of any kind of worms
than an ounce of decaying, diseased vegeta
ble matter.
Woman as Artists.
There are now in France 1,700 women
engaged in literary pursuits, and 2,120 who
make a living by cultivating the fine arts.
Two-thirds of the former were born in the
provinces, chiefly in the south, while a si
milar proportion of the artists were born in
Paris. Of the 1,700 writers, 1000 have
written novels or short stories for young
people; 200 are poets, 150 write on educa
tion and science, the remainder are com
pilers, translators and the like. Of the ar
tists, 10 are sculptors, 602 oil painters, the
majority being painters of portraits, flowers,
and still nature, 103 are miniaturists, 754
painters on porcelain, and 404 draw and
engrave on wood, paint in water-colors,
ornament fans and the like.
Be strong to hope. O Heart!
Though day is bright,
The stars can onlv shine
In the dark night
Be strong, O Heart of mine,
Look toward the light!
Be strong to bear, O Heart!
Nothing is vain;
Strive not for life is care.
And God sends pain;
Heaven is above, aud there
Rest will remain!
Be strong to love, O Heart!
Lo.e knows not wrong;
Didst thou love—creatures even,
Life were not long;
Didst thou love God in heaven.
Thou wouldst be strong.
The Belle of Wolf Run.
A company of strolling players hi a barn.
The great space is lighted by lamps of
every description, the most ambitious of
which is a circle of hoops stuck full of can
dles. This does duty as the grand chand
elier, and is quite effective.
Seated near the stage, before which hangs
a green curtain, are two persons—a man
and a young girl, whom, even the uuprac
ticed eye might take as rustic lovers. He
is a tall, finely-formed young fellow; with
a uoble head and keen, sparkling blue eyes.
She is the beauty of Wolf Run, faultless in
figure and feature, and with a something in
her expression deuoting that 9he is not quite
satisfied with her position, even as the belle
of the villiage. or her surroundings.
Margaret Lee had never in her life seen a
play, therefore she was prepared to realize
all the emotions of novelty, terror, wonder,
delight, with which a novice looks on the
strut and action of these who cater to the
profouudest emotions. Of course she for
got where she was; of course she was daz
zled aud terribly stirred at the love scenes,
which were, as usual, exaggerated.
The hero of the drama was a handsome,
worthless rascal, who learned, before the
evening was through, to play at our unso
phisticated little Margaret, reading her ad
miration in her eyes, and enjoying the
smiles, tears, and almost spoken interest,
of the beauty of Wolf Run.
"Pretty good—wasn't it ?" said Charlie
Vance, as be held her fleecy red shawl to
wrap about her, at the close of the perform
Margaret had no words, she only gasped:
"Oh, Charlie!" as they gained the door,
aud caught at hi 9 arm; for there stood
the hero of the stage, still in his bespang
led velvet finery, and evidently stationed
at that particular place in order to catch a
glance at her lovely face.
"Confound his impudence.'' Charlie
Vance muttered between his teeth.
Margaret shivered a little as they left the
barn. Everybody was laughing and talk
ing. The soft, clear, round moon shed its
light upon a scene of sylvan beauty; but the
two spoke but few word 9 until they had
reached Margaret's home—a square white
house set back in a garden.
"A little of that goes a great ways," said
the young farmer, who had evidently been
thinking the matter over. "They stay here
a week or more. 1 don't care to go again,
do vou ?"
"Oh, I do believe I could go every
night." said Margaret, fervently.
a .hard set, Maggy, "said her
lover, a little malice in his voice.
"How do ycu know? Are you sure of
that ?" she asked, eagerly and reprovingly.
"Oh, they're generally thought to be.
Well, good'-night, Maggyand he had
gone ten steps before it occured to him that
they had parted without a kiss.
"I don't care," he said, sullenly, half
aloud; "and that fellow staysat her uncle's
tavern, too. Why should it nettle me so,
anvway ?"
Now Margaret and her cousin Anne were
almost as inseparable as sisters. It was with
a quick beating heart that the former took
her way to the tavern next day, meeting
Anne as usual at the private entrance for
the family.
"Oh, Mag!" cried Anne, her eyes spark
, ling, "youhave made a conquest."
"What do you mean ?" asked Margaret,
her fair face flushing, her pulses beating
"Why, you know—last night. Oh, isn't
he glorious!—exquisite? and only think he
asked papa who that very* lovely girl was
n pink ribbons in the second seat —and
that was you! Papa laughed and told him
his niece, and somebody else said something
verv handsome about you at the table, and
then papa up and said you were engaged to
I Charlie Vance, which sounded so ridiculous.
And I give you my word of honor the gen
tleman turned pale."
| "Nonsense!" said Margaret; but the flat
tering words bad accomplished their work,
and it was not hard to persuade her to stay
to dinner, where of course her lovely blush
i ing face did not a little executiorf
"Well, Maggy, what is it to be?" asked
Charlie Vance, sternly. This was only a
week afterward. All the softness had gone
out of his face as he spoke. His eyes had
! lost their gracious, sparkling beauty. It
! might be that his cheeks were a trifle thin,
and certainly his dark face was haggard.
"Oh, Charlie!" —she stood on the other
I side of the spacious hearth, drooping and
timid, her face very white, and the large
eyes startled in expression, like those of a
frightened fawn.
"You are changed, Maggy. Idont say
it alone. God help us both, it s talked all
over the place. Last night, when I heard
something at Dilleways, I felt like going
home and blowing my brains out."
"Ob, Charlie!"
The voice was mre plaintive, and the
. little figure drooped yet lower.
"And it all comes of .that infernal villain.
It all comes of yoifl* going back and forth
I to the hotel, and with your Cousin Anne,
to see him."
! "He is going away to-day," she cried, a
great pain in her voice.
"And you will see him before he goes?"
"Oh, no, no, Charlie. Oh, don't look so
cruel. I can't see pirn now you know Ican't!
"Since you've heard that he's got a wife
i elsewhere, eh?"
"Charlie! I don't care; it isn't that,' she
answered chokingly. How could she
a( jd "It'is because I have found him base,
untrue, when he seemed to me like an angel
lof light." • , r
Her red lips quivered; the tears stood
large and shining on her lashes, her eyes
were downcast, her hands folded with the
rigid clasp of despair.
"I shall never see him again,' she whis-
pered, hoarsely; but if you say all is over
between us, why it must be so."
" I don't <ay it need be, mind," he said,
looking pitifully down at her. "1 can over
look a gixxl deal, I love you so much, so
much! God In heaven only knows how
much I have loved you. Hut I won't have
the face of that man between us. God! no!
no I" aud his great shoulders lifted with the
scarcely drawn breath, while a dark red
hate smoldered in his usually soft eyes.
"It shall be just as you say," she mur
mured, meekly, without Jtxikiug up.
"It shall be just as you say," he replied,
quickly. "Do you thiuk you could learn
to love me again, a little?" he asked, the
anger all gone. She was so beautiful.
"Try me, Charlie. You are so strong
aud good, and noble: I always felt that—
and one can't long like where one can't re
spect, can one ?" Her hands were on his
arm now, and the lovely pleading eyes up
lifted to his.
"You won't see him again?
"I woa't —I swear I won't! What should
I want to see him for now ? she sobbed.
"Then, we will wait. This troupe goes
to-morrow. Don't cry. darling; I dare say
it will all come out right;" and after a few
low-spoken words, the young man left her,
but by no means with peace seated on his
bosom's throne.
"Mamma, if anybody comes, say I'm
out," called Margaret, from the top stairs.
"Well, I guess nobody'll be here to-day,
unless it's that actor fellow," was the re
sponse. "Don't walk iu the sun," she
added, for mother and father were proud
of their darling s beauty, and they secretly
wished for her a better match than even
their neighbor's son.
Deep in the woods she struck, determin
ed never te see that too fair fatal face again.
"He'll be gone to-morrow," she half sob
bed, holdiug her hands hard against her
heart, "and I shall never see him again.
God be thanked! for, oh, I dare not trust
myself "
The path, slippery, with pine-leaaves,
led to a favorite resting-place—a cleared
spot through which ran a crystal-clear river.
The place combined several distinctively
beautiful features. Here she sat down,
unmindful of the singing stream, the soft
shadows, the sweet murmuring of the wind
in the tops of the trees.
A footstep near startled her.
In the river, as in a mirror, she saw a
vision that had become all too dear to her—
a graceful figure Clad in black velvet,
the* small hat, with its waving plumes, re
flected, with the outstretched that
held it, iu the blue depths.
She sprang to her feet, a burning flush
spreading over her brow neck, and
would have fled but that he was beside her
at a bound.
"My beauty! my darling! my own!"
"Sir, those words are an insult to me!"
sh cried with spirit, striving in vain to free
herself from his caressing arm.
"An insult! I would die before I would
offer you an insult, my beautiful. Come
with me; I want to show you a lovelier spot
than this—come!"
"I will not, she said, firmly, wresting
herself from him, not daring to look up In
his face. "How could you follow me—
how dared you ?"
"Love will dare anything," he said,
gayly, fastening his powerful eyes on her
tace, and drawing her glance up to his.
"Come, I will woo you like Claude Mel
notte." And again he put an arm al>out
her: but, like a flash of lighting, the two
were torn asunder, and the man was thrown
headlong with one blow from the powerful
arm of Charlie Vance.
"Go!" he said, sternly, pointing to the
Tightened girl. "I can save you from his
insolence, but I cannot promise to save you
from yourself. Go, and think on your
broken promises."
Latter in the day Charlie came up to Mar
garet's house and asked for her.
"Whatever is the matter with the child ?"
queried the mother. I never saw her in
such low spirits."
The young man made no answer, but
went into the cool, shaded parlor. Presently
Margaret came down, white as a lilly.
There was an unspoken question in her
wide, tearless eyes.
"No, I didn't kill him, Maggie, though he
deserved it. I don't want the crime of mur
der on my soul, even for you my poor girl.
But 1 sent him away as subdued and cool
ed-down a man as ever you see. Such men
are always cowards. And now, Maggie
you're free. I never should want to think
of the look you gave him while I held you
in my arms, and I should have to think of
it. I've come to saj T good-bye, for I'm off
for the West, and if ever I—hello!"
There was a low, broken sob, and on his
chest Margaret lay a dead weight. The
girl had fainted away.
Well, a long sickness followed. Charlie
could not leave her lying there between life
and death, and the first visit after she could
set up settled the matter. Margaret had
conquered her vanity, which, after all, was
more touched than her affections, and found
that there was only one image in the heart
that had been, as she thought, so.torn with
conflicting struggles—and that was the
frank, honest, blue-eyed Charlie Vance,
who had loved her ever since she was a
Aud of course they were married.
Mining Experts.
In a recent conversation with Mr. W. B.
Welles, of New York, we asked that gen
tleman his opinion of mining-experts as
they are known to miners. "I can give
you my opinion in no better way," he re
plied, "than relating an incident in the suit
of the famous Emma Mine, which took
place in Utah, and in which Schenck, of
Ohio, was seemingly mixed up. During
the trial, one C'apt. Tom Bates, a man
known throughout the mining regions of
the west, was on the witness-stand, and
one of the lawyers, in cross-examination
"You are a mining-expert. Mr. Bates?"
"No, sir. lam not," was the answer.
"Did I not understand you to say that
you had visited and inspected most of the
known mines of the west?"
"You did, sir."
"And have you uot made mining a study
for years?"
"I have, sir."
"Well then, please state to the court
the definition of a mining-expert."
"Well, sir, a mining-expert is a man
who wears eye glasses, parts his hair in the
middle, has graduated at Freiburg, and
speaks very bad English."
Then there was a profonnd silence in
court, and the Captain sat down.
The Secon ' Love.
You must permit me to offer you my
congratulations. Mr. Renaud will, no
doubt, be more happy than most of the
Benedicts, having distanced so many com
petitors ; and he is also greatly to be euvied
in finding a Beatrice so artless and so un
touched by the world and its vanities. For
myself, the woman I shall marry is not
born. When she appears, I will let you
know ; until then, believe me your very
sincere friend. ALHKKD FIELD.
Thus wrote Alfred Field to his former
Jiuncee , Miss Eflie Severe, on the receipt of
I her wedding-cards, a few days before her
marriage. He had loved her in the old
days two years before ; but Elfle was an un
deniabie little flirt, and Alfred having been
severely tried once or twice by reports of
the havoc caused by
•'Those sweet eyes, those low replies."
he had forced himself to forget her, and
sternly deny to his longing eyes the sight of
her faithless, but still beloved face. His
victory over himself he had thought aom
plete until the sight of her wedding cards,
with the formal "Miss Severe" and "Mr.
Renaud" in such cloAe and significant rela
tion, seemed to bring back some of his old
feelings. He suddenly resolved to go to her
wedding; and arriveil just in time to wit
ness the ceremony at the church.
He followed the bridal party home, and
entered the old familiar home with the
throng, who crowded around the happy
pair to offer their joyfnl congratulations.
At his approach Eflie gave a violent 9tart.
"Eflie," cried Alfred, in a low, intense
tone, "1 would give my soul could I believe
this day were all a dream!"
"You threw away your own happiness,."
returned Ettle, iu a tone deep with sup
pressed emotion. "And now you are left
to look forward to felicity with 'the woman
who is not yet born."
Years passed away, and Alfred Field still
lingered in the realms ot bachelordoui. The
sunlH'ams glanced on many a silver thread
among his chestnut curls as he sat on the
deck of a steamer one fair spring afternoon,
about nineteen years after be had witnessed
Eflie Severe's wedding.
He was on his way to look after a little
ward whom fate had thrown upon his hands
in a rather curious manner.
Years before, he rescued the child and its
nurse from a burning house; and, no trace
of the little orphan's parentage ever turning
up, he had generously maintained her ever
since. The nurse had liecome insane from
the fright of that terrible night; and, after
lingering for years in this condition, was
now about to (lie.
He was iooking forward to meeting quite
a little girl when he arrived at his lonely
villa just outside the town; but as he en
tered the gate, and advanced up the wind
ing avenue which led to the home, he held
his breath in wonder at the apparition tliat
appeared to greet him.
Was his old love risen from the dead past?
In a bower of orange trees stood the living
image of Effie Severe, leaning forward with
wager expectancy written iu every line of
her mobile face.
"Dear guardian!" said she. Bpringimr
forward, and seizing his hand.
Alfred was speechless with emotion.
"Speak to your little Gertrude, will you
not, dear gulrdian ?" pleaded the sweet
It was'long ere Alfred oould command
himself sufficiently to talk coherently to his
little ward. The likeness was indeed won
drous ; and as day by day flew by, and the
old nurse still lay in an unconscious state,
Alfred remained in that fairy villa, having
ample opjiortunity to And out how much in
mind, as well as in person the fair young
Gertrude was like his lost Effie. Soon
agaiu Alfred Field loved, with all the in
tensity of his nature.
At last the old nurse died. Just before
her death she regained her mind for a brief
space, and in broken accents told them
where to find a pocket bible, which had be
longed to Gertrude's mother.
He took her in his arms, held her close to
his beating heart, and never let her free
until she had promised, with her sweet face
hidden in his bosom, to be his love, his
darling, his wife.
As he unclasped her from Disarms, a book,
which had been lying in her lap, fell to the
ground, and from between its leaves dropped
a letter, old, worn, and wrinkled.
"Where did you get this?" he gasped
"It was my mother's Bible, and that let
ter was tied inside," auswered Gertaude. in
great surprise.
"Ah, beloved?" returned Alfred, folding
licr once more in his arms. "Your mother
was my first and early love; you are my
last and eternal affection."
••Zis la one Gram! Meextake."
With both eyes hidden by the black
swoollcn lids that had risen to a level with
the bridge of his nose, Henri Larquette,
whose shirt front was spattered with blood
that had dropped from his- badly damaged
lips, presented a really pitiable appearance
when recently he appeared us a prisoner at
the bar of the Police Court.
"How did you get your injuries?" asked
the Court.
"Zis is one grand meestake, Monsieur,"
answered Henri, giving his shoulders the
characteristic shrug of the Frenchman.
"There can be no mistake that you have
been injured by some one," said his Honor.
' 'Zis is no doubt true, Monsier, but zis is
vera, vera painful. 1 would la-ike to have
one conversation wiz ze doctaire? ''
"But tell me who struck you?"
"Madam Marquette, Moisiieur."
"What! Your wife did that,?" said the
Court, in evident astonishment.
"Oui, Monsieur. Bhe was one grand
fighting woman. Mon Dieu! How zat
woman strike out wis her shouldaire !" ex
claimed Henri.
"Is she French, too?" asked His Honor,
f "No, Monsieur. She was one Irs' woman
zat 1 got 'quaint wis in Eurgpe."
"She was nice then, eh"?"
"Ah, oui, oui!" said Henri.
"But now she is—"
"One tarn tigaiie! I shall be undaire ze
obligation to leave zis woman. She will
take ze life of my friend. Last night I
have some little wine, and when I was in
my slumbaire zat woman come wis her fist
and strike one such awfool blow zat I think
I was one dead Frenchman."
"I guess she punished you enough for
getting tight. YY>u can go, but I would
advise you to be temperate hereafter," said
the Court.
"Out. I go, but Ino go home wis zat
woman, by tarn! Zat would be no good for
me. Igo wis ze doctaire," said Henri, as
he seized his hat and sadly passed out of
A l'ro]il<>xliii[ rrpillcaiui'iit.
The chateau of Lazieuski! Louis Dixhuit
occupied it for some time during the French
emigration; and it was there that the fat
monarch was frightened into a fit of jaun
dice, which lasted some time, and necessi
tated the change of air which sent him to
Wittau. In the garden exists a cool grotto,
occupied by a cold bath, furnished by the
waters of the little lake in the middle of
which Lazieuski stands. The exiled Bour
bon, then Count de Provence, was ac
customed to use the bath frequently; and,
one morning, after a night of rioting in the
chateau, to which all the great drinkers
amongst the high life of Warsaw hud been
invited, be walked down leisurely through
the garden to the grotto, determined to have
a dip before retiring to rest for the day.
The grotto was dark at all times, at that
early time in the morning particularly so.
•The Count de Provence hurried to strip
and plunge into the pool, which lay clear
and pellucid at the bottom of the marble
steps, shining through the darkness like a
mirror in which the moonlight is reflected.
His royal highness, differing at that mo
ment in nothing from the meanest peasant
in the same expectant condition, walked
down the steps, and was just about to throw
himself into the water, when a surly oath
broke, as it were, from the bottom of the
bath, and in another moment a figure, all
dripping, jumpCu up amid the darkness,
and, seizing the count in a slippery grasp,
flung him heavily forward, and burst into
a hoarse laugh at his floundering, and al
most unconscious with th shock occasioned
by the surprise. It was Prince Kasolowski,
the governor, who, inspired with the same
idea as the Count de Provence, had hurried
into the grounds with the same intention,
and now stood before his royal guest, grin
ning aud chattering, and presenting the
most extraordinary flgure possible, for he
wore, as sole raiment, the ribbon and collar
of the Orjjer he had worn at the banquet,
with his jeweled star upon his bare skin.
By a not unusual characteristic of drunk
enness, he had carefully replaced the insig
nia after having undressed. The obese
Bourbon, after having gazed at him wildly
for a few moments, and, not recognizing
him amid the obscurity of the grotto and
his own troubled visions, rushed from the
bath, and ran screaming through the grouuds
towards the chateau, with Kasolowski at
his heels, endeavoring to soothe his fears;
and the household, aroused from slumber,
beheld with amazement this extraordinary
chase in the bright summer morning, and
failed to recognize either of the actors in
the scene until tlvey had reached the hall
step. Poor Louis was put to bed well
wrapped in blankets, but the shock was so
great that it brought on a bilious attack,
which terminated in a severe fit of jaun
dice, and he was compelled to remove for
change of air far front the place which he
had always declared to be the most beauti
ful spot he hail beheld in all the travels to
<vhieh the revolution had condemned him.
Nannette's Live liaby.
A good many years ago. in the city of
Philadelphia, lived a little girl named Nan
nette. One summer afternoon her mother
went to pay a short visit to her aunt who
ljved near by, and gave her little girl per
mission to amuse herself on the front door
steps until her return. So Nannette. in a
clean pink frock and white apron, playing
and chatting with her big wax "Didy,"
which was her doll's name, formed a pretty
picture to the passeis-by some of whom
walked slowly in order to hear the child's
talk to her doll.
"You'se a big old girl," she went on,
smoothing out Didy's petticoats, "and I've
had you for ever and ever, and I'se mos'
six. But you grow no bigger. You never
cry, you don't. Y'ou'se a stupid old thing
and I'm tired of you, I am! I b'leve you'se
only a make-b'leve baby, and I want a real,
live baby 1 do—a baby that will cry! Now
don't you see," and she gave the doll's head
a whack—"that you don't cry? If any
body should hit me so, I'd squeam m-u-r
--d-e-r, I would! And then the p'lissman
would come, aud there would be an awful
time. There, now sit up, can't you? Your
buck is like a broken stick. Oh, hum, I'm
tired of you, Didy."
Leaving the doll leaning in a one-sided
way against the door, Nannette posed her
dimpled chin in her hands aud sat quietly
looking into the street. Presently a wo
man came along with a bundle in her arms,
aud seeing Nanuette and Didy in the door
way, went up the steps and asked the little
girl if she would not like to have a real lit
tle live baby.
"One that will cry?" eagerly asked Nan
"Yes, one that will cry and laugh too,
after a bit," answered the woman, all the
time looking keenly about her; and then in
a hushed voice she asked the child if her
mother was at home.
"No, she's gone to see my auntie, shall I
call her?" replied Nannette, jumping to her
feet and clapping her hands, from a feeliug
as if in some way she was to have her long
wißhed-for live baby.
"No, don't call her; and if you want a
baby that will cry, you must be very quiet
and listen to me. Mark me now—have you
a quarter of a dollar to pay for a baby?"
"I guess so," answered Nannette; "I've
a lot of money up stairs." And running
up to her room she climbed into a chair,
took down her money box from a shelf,
and emptying all her pennies and small
silver coin into her apron, ran down again.
"This ia as much as a quaiter of a dollar
isn't it?"
The woman saw at a glance that there
was more than that amount, and hastily
taking poor little Nannette's carefully
hoarded pennies, she whispered:
"Now carry the baby up stairs and keep
it in your own little bed. Be careful to
make no noise for it is sound asleep. Don't
tell anybody you have it until it gries.
Mind that. When you hear it cry you may
know it is hungry."
Then the woman went hurriedly away,
and Nannette never saw her again.
Nannette's little heart was nearly break
ing with delight at the thought of having a
real live baby; and holding the bundle fast
in her arms, where the woman had placed
it, she began trudging up stairs with it.
Finally puffing and panting, her cheeks all
aglow, see reached her little bed and turn
ing down the covers, she put in the bundle
and covering it up carefully, she gave it
some loving little pats, saying softly: "My
baby, my real, little live baby that will
cry!" And then she carefully tripped out
of the room and down stairs again.
Very soon Nannette's mother came home,
bringing her a fine large apple which drove
all thoughts of the baby from -her mind,
and it was only when night came and she
was seated at the supper-table with her pa
pa aud mamma that she remembered her
baby; but at that time, suddenly, from
somewhere that surely was ia the house,
came u baby's cry; and clapping her hands,
her eyes daucing with joy, Nannette began
to slide down from Tier chair, saying with
great emphasis, "That's my baby."
Her mother laughed. " Your baby, Nan
"Yes, mamma, my baby; don't you hear
it cry? 'Tis hungry." And she started to
run up stairs, but her mother called her
hack. •
"Why Nannette. what ails you? What
do you mean about your baby?" she asked
in surprise.
"Why, my baby, mamma! I bought it
for a quarter of a dollar. A baby that cries
—not a mis'ble make-b'leve baby. Oh, how
it does cry; it must be awful hungry."
And away she darted up the stairs.
Her father and mother arose from their
seats in perfect amazement and followed
their little girl to her room, where, lying
upon her bed, was a bundle, from which
came a baby's cries. Nannette's mother
began to unfasten the wrappings, and sure
enougli there was a wee little giri not more
than two or three weeks old looking up at
them with two great wet eyes.
Of course Nannette was questioned, and
she related all she could rsinember of her
talk with the women from whom she bought
baby. 1 ler papa said perhaps the baby had
been stolen, and that something had been
given to it to make it sleep.
"But what shall we do with it?" asked
both the father and mother. "Do with it?"
cried Nannette; "why, it's my baby, mam
ma. I paid all my money for it. It cries,
it does. 1 will keep it always."
ISo it was decided that the baby should
stay if nobody came to claim it, which no
body ever did, although Nannette's papa
put an advertisement in a paper about it.
It would take a large book to tell all of
Nannette's experiences in taking care of
"my baby" as she called the "little girl,
whom she afterward named Victoria in
honor of the then young queen of England.
Victoria is now a woman, and she lives
as does Nannette, in the city of Philadel
phia. She has a little girl of her own,
"mos' six." who is named Nannette for
the good little "sister-mother," who once
upon a time bought her mamma of a strange
woman for a quarter of a dollar, as she
thought. And this other little Nannette
never tires of hearing the romantic story of
the indolent "Didy" and the "real little
live baby that will cry."
Story of a Faithful SerTant.
Many years ago, there lived on the banks
of the Brandywine, in the State of Pennsy
lvania, an old Quaker gentleman, who pos
sessed an old faithful servant. This servant
was a luwse, and his name was Charley.
Now Charley liad trotted before the family
chaise for many a long year, to the village
pontotTice, to the Sabbath-day meeting, and
upon all kinds of errands. Old Charley
was ever ready to be* "hitched up." Not
one trick had he shown, nor had he once
proved unfaithful, and grandfather always
nxie him on such errands of business as he
might have about the farm. The river di
vided the farm, and it was at times neces
sary to visit the lot on the other side; there
was a bridge a mile aud a half from the
house, but there was a good ford just down
by the bank, which was always used when
the water was not too high. One day in
the Springtime, grandfather had to go over
the river, but the freshet had come, the
banks were overflowed, and the ice in great
cake and fields was coming down with a
rush, so he mounted old Charley, and set
off by the way of the bridge. Arriving
safely on the other side, he spent some time
on the business which had brought him
over, and it was nearly sundown when he
got ready to go home. He looked up toward
the bridge, said it was a long three miles
around, aud that he would try the ford.
"Old Charley can swim," he said, as he
rode down to the bank of the stream, "and
it is but a short way over."
Charley looked reluctant, but after con
siderable urging he entered the stream. In
a moment be was striking out bravely for
the opposite shore, but in another moment
a great cake of ice came pounding along,
overwhelming both man and horse. They
both rose, but grandfather had lost his seat,
and as he was swept along by the powerful
current, he caught the drooping branches of
a large sycamore tree, and was soon safe
from immediate danger.
The riderless horse pursued his journey
toward the house, and soon reached the
shore. Here, appearing to miss his famil
iar, friend, he looked around, and, as it
seems, discovered his master clinging to the
branch of the tree; immediately, and with
out Invitation, he turned around and swam
boldly for the tree, and beneath the branch
he stopped and permitted my grandfather
to get on his back, and then, although quite
exhausted, he started at once for home.
The whole scene had been witness by the
entire family, and they got ready with
lioats and went to meet the nearly exhaust
ed horse; he was caught by the bridle when
near the shore, and the old gentleman re
lieved from his perilous position.
Etiquette of Letter-Writing.
As a rule every letter, unless insulting
in its character, requires an answer. To
neglect to answer a letter when written to,
is a9 uncivil as to neglect a reply when
spoken to.
In the reply acknowledge first the receipt
of the letter, mentioning the date and after
wards consider all the points requiring at
If the letter is to be very brief, commence
suffk ieatly far from the top of tlje page to
give a nearly equal amount of blank paper
at the bottom of the sheet when the letter
is ended.
Should the matter in the letter continue
beyond the first page, it is well to com
mence a little above the sheet, extending
as far as necessary on the other pages.
It is thought improper to use a half-sheet
of. paper in formal letters. As a matter of
economy and convenience for business pur
poses, however, it is customary to have the
card of the business man printed at the top
of the sheet, and a single leaf is used.
In writing a letter, the answer to which
is of more benefit to yourself than the per
son to whom you write, inclose a postage
stamp for the reply.
Letters should be as free from arasures,
interlineation, blots and postscripts as pos
sible. It is decidedly better to copy the
letter than to have these appear.
A letter of introduction or recommenda
tion should never be sealed, as the bearer
I to whom it is given oqght to know the con
The pillow is a silent sibyl— despise
not its oracles.
Employ your time well, if you mean
to gain leisure.
Frequently review your conduct and
not your feelngs.
Flattery is like champagne—ll soon
gets into the head.
Every dog has his day, but the nights
belong to the cats.
It is better to live on a little, than
outlive a great deal.
Man's knowledge is but the rivulet,
his ignorance as the sea.
How to get a good wife—take a good
girl and go to a parson.
To read without reflecting is like eat
ing without digesting.
A good man will never teach that
which he does not believe.
Experience keeps a dear school, but
fools will learn in no other.
A slip of the foot may be recovered,
but that of the tongue, perhaps, never.
We should take abundant care for the
future, but so as to enjoy the present.
"Whatever is, is right," except when
you get the right boot on the left toot.
Love elevates or debases the soul, ac
cording to the obieet which inspires it.
A have a thousand ac
quaintances, and not one friend among
Never count on the favor of the rich
by flattering either their vanities or
"Mankind," said a preacher, "in
cludes woman; for man embraces wo
Jealousy is the height of egotism,
self-love, and the iritation of a false
The best penance we can do for en
vying another's merit is to endeavor to
surpass it.
I reckon him a Christian indeed who
is neither ashamed of the gospel nor a
shame to it.
Look in thy heart and write. He
that writes to himself, writes to an
eternal public.
When the world has got hold of a lie,
it is astonishing how hard it is to get
it away from it.
What is that which never asks any
questions but requires many answers?
The street door.
When a tooth begins to feel as if there
was a chicken scratching at the root,
it's time to pullit.
"Figures won't lie." That's another,
How about the human figure after a
day's hard work? •
They who are very indulgent to
themselves, seldom haffe much consid
eration for others.
Kindness is stowed away in the heart
like leaves in a drawer to sweeten every
object around them.
Pawn Bhops are called collateral
banks in Philadelphia, because it is not
so vulgar, as it were.
We are more prone to persecute oth
ers for their faith tu&u to make sacri
fices to prove our own.
Those who pray with an unforgiving
spirit curse themselves every time they
say the Lord's Prayer.
Adversity does not take from us our
true friends; it only disperses those
who pretend to be such.
Speak little, speak truth; spend lit
tle, pay cash. Better go supperless to
bed than to run in debt.
When one man has a prejudice
against another, suspicion is very busy
iu coining resemblances.
Those who are most addicted to satir
ize others, dislike most to be made ob- •
jects of satiro themselves.
The height of all philosophy is to
know thyself, and the end of this
knowledge is to know God.
Never think the worse of another who
on occount of differing with you in re
ligious or political opinions.
In talking, everything is unreasona
ble that is private to two or three, or
any portion of the company.
The grocer offered him a frozen ham,
but he said he'd rather not take the
cold shoulder from any one.
There is no man so friendless but
that he can find a friend sincere enough
to tell him disagreeable truths.
A lot of bootblacks sittiugon a curb
stone may not be India-rubber boys,
though tbey are gutter perchers.
It can be a9 pleasant for ex
ercise power, and for seed to develop
seed, as it is to rest when re*t in needed.
"Dying in povery," says a modern
moralist, "is nothing; it is living In
poverty that comes hard on a fellow."
"You are carrying this thing too
far," said a policeman, as he arrested a
thief runningoff with a man's watch.
All men are better than their ebulli
tions of evil, but they are also worse
than their outburst of noble enthusi
What is the difference between a trot
ting-park and a tribe of savages ? One
is a race course and the other a coarse
Books, like proverbs, receive their
chief value from the stamp and esteem
of ages through which they have
Blessed is the hand that prepares a
pleasure for a child, for there is no
saying when and where It may again
bloom forth.
Rasper, being told that he looked
seedy and asked what business he was
in, replied: "The hardwear business;
look at my wardrobe."
"Dipped into a weak solution of ac
complishments," Is the term now ap
plied to those of our girls professing to
be so highly educated.
In the South the boys can go in
swimming two months earlier than cau
the juveniles in the North. This is
another Southern outrage.
A graduate of West Point, who went
West to startle the country by some
marvelous performances, is now the
traveling agent for a corset factory.
"Is this air-tight?" Inquired a man
in a hardware store, as he examined a
stove. *"No, sir," replied the clerk:
"air never gets tight." He lost a cus
"Is your house a warm one, land
lord?" asked a gentleman iu search of
a house, "it ought to be," was the re
ply, "the painter gave it two coats re
NO. 14.