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PROFESSIONAL CARDS OF
C. T. Alexander. o. M. bower.
ATTORNEYS AT LAW*
Office In German's new building.
JOriN B. LINN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Office on Allegheny Street.
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Northwest corner of Diamond.
Y° cum & HASTINGS,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
High Street, opposite First National Bank.
ATTORNEY AT LA \V,
Practices in all the courts of Centre county.
Bpec al attention to Collections. Consultations
in German or English.
iLBUR F - kkedek,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
All bus oess promptly attended to. Collection
of claims a speciality.
JTA. Beaver. J W. Gephart.
JgEAVER St GEPHART,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
Office on Alleghany Street, North of High.
ATTORNEY AT LAW 7 .
Office on Woodrlng's Block, Opposite Court
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Consultation? In English or German. 001 oe
In Lyons Building, Allegheny Street.
JOHN G. LOVE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Office in the rooms formerly occupied by the
late w. P. Wilson.
BUSINESS CARDS OF MILLHKIM, &
Q A. STURGIS,
Watches, Clocks, Jewelry, Silverware, Ac. Ra
pairing neatly and promptly done and war
ranted. Main Street, opposite Bank, Millheim,
A O. DEININGER,
* NOTARY PCBLI®.
SCRIBNEB AND CONVEYANCER,
AU business entrusted to him, such aa writing
and acknowledging Deeds, Mortgages, Releases,
Ac., will be executed with neatness and dis
patch. Office on Main Street.
ItY USSER <fc SMITH, '
Hardware. Stoves, Oils, Paints, Glass, Wa
Papers, coach Trimmings, and Saddlery Ware
All grades of Patent Wheels.
Corner of Main and Penn Millheim,
Cutting a Specialty.
Shop ii£x*. cloor to Journal Book Ptoro.
TT H. TOMLINSON,
ALL KINDS OF
Groceries. Notions, Drugs, Tobaccos, Cigars.
Flue Confectioneries and everything in tho lino
of a flrst-class Grocery store. a
Country Produce taken In exchange for feoous.
Main Street, opposite Bank. MMhelia. Pa.
T~\A VID I. BROWN,
MANUFACTURER AND DEALER IN
TINWARE, STOVEPIPES, Ace.,
SPOUTING A SPECIALTY.
flbcD on Main Street, two houses ca3t of Bank
" * JUSTICE OF THE PEACE,
All business promptly attended to.
mUecttou of claims a specialty,
omoe opposite Eisenftutu's Drug Store.
A WALTER, Cashier. DAV. KRAPE, Pres.
olic pillletut Sonrmvt
If oulv the rain would oeaae to beat.
If only the witnla w. uld cease to blow,
If only the cloud* would but ri treat,
Aud the summer sun-shiu glauco aud
1 should be perfectly happy 1 kuow.
All day and every day, I wait
For something or other to oome and go
To make my pleasure a perfect state,
To make my heart a summer glow
Of suto delight that will never go.
But all day, ai d every day, I wait,
Aud the days ruu by, and the days run low,
Aud everything seen s too soon or too late.
And I never find what 1 seek, you kuow,
Never get just what I want, you know.
There's always something or other amiss,
The tide is at ebb when I want it at flow,
A fleck and a flaw to mar the bhss
That might be easily I erftot 1 know,
if 1 ecu d but make th.ngs come and go !
I've waited uow so long and so late,
That the hope I had, like the tide runs low,
And I begin to think that i thall wait
Forever aud ever like this, you know.
For things to come, that always go.
And I begin to think that perhaps, puliap-t,
When time is so swift and joy so low,
I'd better make most of the hours that
And the best of the days that come and go,
Or tue years w ill be gone ere ever I kuow,
And 1 shall Bit weary, old and sad,
l.iko a weary old wornau 1 kuow,
And think of the days I might have been glad.
Of the pleasures 1 dropped and the things
1 let go,
F'or the thiuga I never could Aud you know-
The Broken Boat.
4t is too bad,' said Alice Ford, with a
quiver of her scarlet lower lip.
'lt i 3 what might be expected,' said Mrs.
Ford, sitting serenely at the breakfast
table, 'when a girl will dirt with two gen
tlemen at once.'
'But I haven't flirted,' said Alice, ready
'I don't know what else you can call it,'
said Mrs. Fcrd. 'Will you have another
cup of tea, Alice?'
' lea!' flashed out the girl; 'as if one
could drink tea when one's heart is break
ing! Oh, aunt, if Mr. Errett were a gen
tleman he would release me from this
'You promised him, my dear?' said Mrs.
'Yes; but 1 hadn't met Arthur Kelham
then; and I have written to Mr. Errett,and
implored him to release me from this hate
ful bond,' cried poor Alice. *1 have told
him that since our engagement —an en
gagement that was your doing, aunt '
'I know it,' said Mrs. Ford, 'and 1 am
proud of it.'
'That since that engegement,' went on
Alice, l I have discovered that my heart is
not my own; and he has written back that
he sees no necessity for alteriug the origi
nal state of things, and that if it is agree
able to me—agreeable indeed! —the wed
ding may still take place on the sixth of
October. Horrible, cold hearted, calculat
ing old '
iTOod morning, ladies; I hope 1 see you
And Alice's tirade was unexpectedly cut
short by the apparition of Mr. Bartholo
mew Errett. She had scarcely uttered a
disjointed word or two of greeting when
the maid opened an opposite door and
'Please, Miss Alice, Mr. Kelham.'
And Arthur Kelham came in, young,
handsome and dobonnair , as unlike his
mature rival as is blooming May to ripened
Mr. Errett put up his eye glass at Arthur
Kelham, and Arthur Kelham stared Mr.
Errett full in the face with well-bred amaze
'Sir,'said Mr. Errett, 'I am at a loss to
imagine what brings you here!'
'Sir,' retorted Mr. Kelhan, 'I suppose I
have as good right to visit my friends as
you have to call on yours 1'
'You mistake,' said Mr. Errett; 'I am
engaged to Miss Ford.'
'Do you mean to say,' retorted Kelham,
hotly, 'that you would marry the girl
against her will? Why, you might as well
be a Turkish slave-driver at once!'
'Sir!' gasped Bartholomew Errett, turn
ing a livid pallor, 'I am at a loss to con
ceive what business all this is of yours!'
Alice stepped between them.
'You shall not quarrel about me,' said
she, with a dignity that would scarcely
have been expected from one so small an i
slight. 'Arthur, I have carved out my
own destiny and must abide by it. Mr.
Errett. I beg you to remember that you
are in the presence of ladies!'
'Am I to stand here and see you insul
ted?'demanded Kelham, with flushed brow.
'I have promised to be his wife,' said
Alice; 'and until he himself absolves me
from my word, 1 have no power to assert
'Do you then bid me go?'
'Yes,' the girl answered, almost inaudi
And Arthur Kelham turned and left the
field in triumphant possession of Mr. Bar
'Mr. Errett!' * * *
'Eh!' said the middle-aged swimmer; 'is
it you. Kelham? Boating, eh?'
'Yes. Do you think it's quite safe for
you to be here, so far from land? You
are not afraid of that shark, then?'
'Of the —what?' said Mr. Errett.
'Haven't you heard? There has been a
shark along this shore since yesterday;and,
by Jingo! I believe he is there now. Don't
you see something that shines white through
Mr. Errett- reared himself up in the
MILLHEIM, PA., THURSDAY, MAY 19, 1881.
water like a new species of sea-serpent.
•Good Heaven!' said he, "there is some*
tiling like a shark there. Why didn't they
tell me? Why did they allow me '
4 1 wouldn't be nervous.' said Kelham,
coolly. 'Perhaps he dou't see you.'
See me! Why those fellows can scent
human lle-h a mile off 1 1 should have
been a dead man in ten minutes if you
hadn't come along.'
And he began to paddle iugloriously to
ward the little boat in which Arthur Kel
ham was sitting.
'Hallo!' said Kelhaia, putting an oar's
length between himselt and the swimmer,
'what are you about?*
"1 am going to get into your boat, to be
'Are you though,' said Kelham; 'there
may be two opinions about that.'
'Eh!' said Errett.
'What should I take you back to land
for#' demanded Kelman. 'lf the shark
eats you up, I'm all right with Alice.'
'Man a ive!' gasped Mr. Errett, 'you
wouldn't leave me to die a horrible death,
'As 1 remember,' coolly remarked Ar
thur Kelham, 'y.m hadn't much mercy on
'That was different.'
'1 don't see how,' with another stroke of
his oars, just as Errett was about to clutch
at the side of the boat. 'Don't hurry—
*1 say. Kelham, look here,'cried Errett,
with a scared glauce over his left shoulder
towards the suspicious white object. 'Hold
ou, 1 say.'
'Well?' said Kelham.
'l—l ain't so very particular about the
girl. Hold on.'
ile was beginning to lose breath in the
battle with the waves, aud said:
'lf you really insist '
'Oh, i dou't insist. I don't care to peril
Mrs. Ford's fortuue by getting Alice into
disgrace with her. I must have a volun
tary cession of all your rights or none.'
'lt—it shall be voluntary,' cried Mr.
Errett with chattering teeth. *1 will tell
the old lady I've changed my unnd; 1 wili
make any statement you wish; only save
'I have your word of honor?' said Kel
'My word of honor,' replied Errett.
'Jump in, then.'
And Bartholomew Errett scrambled,
more dead than alive, into the other's boat
and was pulled to the shore.
'l'll just leave you here on the beach till
your uiau comes,' said Kelham,h&lf laugh
ing at Mr. Errett's doleful appearance. 'I
see his boat now rounding the point.
Good afternoon. I siucerely hope you will
take no cold.'
When Philip Gaul pulled up on the
shingly sand his employer hailed him with
'You villaml' cried Errett; 'wny didn't
you tell me of the shark?'
'Of the wnat, master?' demanded old
Gaul, scratching his grizzled head.
•Of the shark; you can see him now
when the sun s.rikes the point. Good
Heaven! to think of the peril I have run.'
'Lawk, master,' said old Gaul, his hard
features relaxing into a grin; 'that ain't no
shark. That's Boon's broken boat,stranded
there on a bit of reef. I could show it to
you plain if I only had my spy glass.'
Mr. Errett's lower jaw fell.
'Are you sure?' said he.
•Quite sure, master. I seen it as I come
by this morning. Sharks indeed! There
ain't never no sharks about here.'
Mr. Errett resumed his garments in si
lence, feeling that he bad heen out gene
raled by his enterprising rival.
'But after all,' said he to himself, 'if the
girl don't like me Gaul, look here.
How much do I owe you? —because I shall
not need your boat any more.'
'Going away from here?' asked the as
'Yes,' was the reply.
And so Mr. Errett left the coast clear for
Arthur Kelham, to Alice's infinite delight.
'Wasn't it good of him, dear?' said 3he
to her lover.
'Very,' said Arthur
But be kept his own counsel about the
shark and how he had out-generaled Bar
Au wld-Tline senator.
General George W. Jones of lowa, left
the United States Senate on March 4th,
1859. On the 4th of March. 1881, he was
an honored guest of the Senate, entitled as
an ex-senator to the privileges of the Moor.
All the membere were new to him except
one, Mr. Hamlin of Maine, and the next
day even he was gone and a younger man
was in his seat. General Jones is to-day
the most historic and, perhaps, the most re
markable character in the west. lie sat in
the Senate with Clay end Webster and Cal
houn, with Silas Wright, Benton, Critten
den and Jeff Davie, with Sumner, Seward,
Chase and Douglas. In the early part of
the century, when General Jackson was
president, he sat in the House of Represen
tatives with Henry A. Wise and John
Quiuey Adams. His district included all
oi Michigan, Wisconsin, lowa and Minne
sota ; it now has over thirty representatives
in congress. He left the senate, not be
cause of personal defeat, but because nis
party had gone out of power in lowa. The
intimate and trusted friend ot Andrew
Jackson, the partner of Daniel Webster, he
remembers Jefferson. On terms of per
sonal acquaintance with nearly all of our
celebrated warriors and statesmen, he num
bers among his friends and enemies the
mighty red kings Black Hawk, Keokuk
and Poweshiek. A soldier in the war of
1812, General Jones is a young man yet.
He walks erect, without a cane, with a
light and springy step, and claims none ol
the indulgences and immunities of old age.
Although this strange locality iu Paris,
is moie widely kuown than some others to
which we may presently refer, it is yet so
much out of of the way as to make it worth
while to describe its exact wliereabouls.
It lies, then, beyeudthe northern slope of
the hill of Mentni&rtre; it is bounded to
the south by the Rue des Cloys and to the
north by llie Rue Marcadet, and is com*
pietely surrounded by a high stone wall.
Jt covers a considerable tract of ground,
and was used during the Commune as au
artillery park. The entrance to it is
through a .arge wooden door in the Rue
Marcadet, opposite the cemetery of Mont
martre. ' Before we go auy farther, It will
be well to warn any inteudiug visitor that
the inhabitants, although a very tolerant
folk, cauuot endure the sight of decent
clothes, aud that amongst uiauy healthy
svmptons to be noted in them, the most
prominent is a deadly abhorrence of the
tali hat of civilization. To attempt to
take them iu, on the other hand, by auy
assumption of 'blouse' or of silkeu
eiu' is absurd,' owever 'qubiatand carious'
your kuowleuge of Parisian slang may be;
but they will be pleased by the attention,
aud wbeu you come among them will com
ment pleasantly upon your good breeding
aud taste iu adopting the outward habits
of the country in which you happen to
find yourself. Such, at least, was our ex
perience. The coup d (Ft/ when you Ami
yourself within the entrance is a striking
oue. Immediately before you lies au op n
space with grass growiug here aud there
betweeu heaps of rubbish. In the centre
is a sort of avenue of young treei and
plants in every stage of decrepitude, lead
ing up to the houses, or, 'to speak by the
card,' boxes, in which the chitfonuiers live.
These are about six feet Bquare, and the
roofs are kept in their places by heavy
stones, such as one sees on till cottages in
exposed sit ualious iu o.ber places. The
roofs ara for the most part of wood, where
as the walls are c imposed of all things
which are generally considered until to
build with, so that lbs appearance of a
Rue Marcadet chiffonnier in his house may
oe beat likened to that of a caddis in bis
strangely constructed abode. Ou the occa
sion of our visit a high wind bad beeu
blowing, aud more than oue member of
ihe commuuity was busy rebuilding bis
house, which bad beeu blown down in the
night. Ou all sides a bustling acUvnty pre
vailed, men and women busily sorting the
contents of tbeir baskets, while numbers oJ
dogs of au uuauown breed barked lustily
a, our approach. Strangers are, indeed,
lew aud iar between iu the chiffonniers'
town, for no mau from the outer world
ev- r comes to sell them anything, a street
of shops kept by their conciioyws exist
lug, not indeed within their own walls,
but in another enclosure close by. Here
dwell bootmakers, a butcher (a great ex
pert at making a cat found dead into a
toothsome dish), tailors and lainpmakers,
who provide the triangular lanterns with
which the members of the 'prole-siou' go
their rouuds at night in search of prey.
Go through that strange Utile street, ot
which the houses come up to your shoul
ders, at what hour of the night you will,
3ou will still see the bootmakers at work
ou the cast off shoes which their customers
have picked up iu the Paris gutters.
lVrbajw the last aetr ss that anyone
w oukJ suppose ever experienced that tender
passion, much less suffered from the pangs
of unrequited love, was Charlotte Cush
inan; and yet twice in her life she was
ready to sacrifice everything for the mau
of her heart. Miss Cushman received a
common school education in Boston. Her
desk-mate was the daughter of an actor,
which led to frequent conversations upon
theatrical matters, and took au interest in
them to such an extent that Miss Cushman
determined as a child that,should fate ever
compel her to adopt a pubic life,the stage
would be her preference, fche had barely
reached the age of sixteen liefore she was
deeply enamored of a young gentleman
who had his way to make in the world, and
a speedy marriage being thereby prevented,
slie had little thought of hope but to do
away with the obstacles which separated
them. Circumstances soon compelled her
to cast about for some means of self-sup
port, her mother being a widow with seven
children to provide tor. Miss Cushman
had a pretty, sympathetic, siuging voice,
of no great power, but much sweetness.
Mrs. Wood was an English ballad-singer,
among the first of that class to make a
great sensation in this country, and during
an engagement in Boston Miss Cushman
managed t~> be introduced to her, and
iiua'ly under Mrs. Wood's auspices, she
made her appearance in the concert room,
bt iug simply announced as 'a young lady.'
Her success was sufficiently pionounced to
determine her to continue in that mode of
file, or at least until fier betrothed should
have become able to marry her; but he
took great umbrage at what he stigmatized
'an uuwomanly proceeding,' and declared
she had disgraced liim. Hot words fol
lowed on lier side, and after much alterca
tion and mutual pain the engagement was
broken off, ami Charlotte Cushman was
free to follow- out her destiny as a great
artist, fehe went her way, and he went
his. After much hard struggling it led
bun into the establisumeot of a store —a
sort of trimming store combined with ready
made clothing for ladies and children —in
which he prospered. He is uow one of the
loiemost merchants of the kind in Boston.
Long years elapsed before the two met
again. Charlotte was famous, and he
affluent and influential. They met as
strangers meet, were introduced, and ever
a Iter ward ma ntained am cable but not
amatory lelauons, lor ne had inarr ed in
A few years ago 1 was in Boston and
dropped into his store to make some pur
chases It happened that Miss Cushman
preceded me a few steps. As soon as the
door-walker caught sight of her he hurried
off and returned with the proprietor,a haie
ruddy-faced, white-haired gentleman, ot
quiet and dignified bearing.
They took rather than shook hands, he
holding hers for a moment, and then side
by side they waiked to the back of tbe
i store. To see those two calm, self con
tained, old silver-haired peopie, one would
have little suspected the heartrending ro
mance which hungover their youth. It is
all very fine to despise money, but the lack
of it frequently changes the destinies ol
entire lives. Had Miss Cushman's lover
been only sufficiently well off to have
married her at the blooming of their love,
in all probability the stage would have
! never known h<>r brilliant genius.
She once remarked to a friend who was
cognizant of the circumstances: 'When I
see him now, ricli and respected, but not
great, and think what a good liusbauu
lie had made, I sigh for what I have lost
and rejoice for what I huve gained. Never
theless, fame and fortune only cannot com
pensate a woman for the lite-long absence
of a husbaud's affection, children's love,
and the peace and happiness of private
life. When I returned from New Orleans
with my voice all gone and in despair, if
he had come forward then and offered me
a home, 1 would gladly have acceoted it,
and would have lived my lite untroubled
by ambi'ious dreams, unsuspecting the
divine utllatus within me. I have had a
thousand limes over in my hand more than
the money which would have secured my
happiness when a girl, and alway think for
what a paltry sum mv whole domestic
happiness was sacrificed.'
After Miss Cusuman had achieved fame
in England, she made a tour to this coun
try. She was thou a woman of middle age,
with a remarkably ugly face, but with a
tall and well-modeled lrauie. She played
at the Natioual theatre, Cincinnati. Conrad
11. Clarke was the leading man, many
years her junior. He had been brought
up as a gentleman, being the son of a
(Quaker in Philadelphia. He soon evinced
a liking for the stage, and nothing could
keep him from it. As for theatrical talent,
he had not mistaken his vocation. Miss
Cushman was struck with his polish and
wit, his talent and cuitnred tone. From
conversation on acting in the theatre,Clarke
soon began to call at the hotel to receive
particular instructions in tne parts he was
to play with her, then ho escorted her home
from the theatres at nights, and it was
plainly to he seen she looked with marked
favor upon the young actor. One evening
she was at the wing, ready to go on as Meg
Merriles, I playing the boy IU 'Guy Man
uering.' 1 was standing by her side, and
Mr. Ciarke was a few steps off, flirting
desperately with a lovely young actress,
who had been christened 'the poodle dog'
from the way she dressed her hair, which
was just as they wear it now-a-days, but
then ihouvht a wild, crazy style. The star
had been giving me a few stage directions,
and, impelled by 1 know not what impulse,
1 suddenly asked:
'What, of all things in the world, Miss
Cushman, would you rather be?
She replied as impulsively, glancing at
Clarke and sighing:
'1 would rather be a pretty woman than
anything else iu this wide world,' and on
the stage she rushed to shriek through Meg
Merrilies. After this he assumed a bolder
trout, flirted no more about the scenes, and
became obsequiously attentive to her. it
became the recognized fact that he was the
great star's protege, and next it transpired
mat she had engaged him to go to England
wiili her. This was a happy period for
them both. Frankness being one of her
chief characteristics, she made no secret
of her admiration of uis talents and liking
for him personally, and of her intention
tiward his interests so far as lay within
her power. Whether she loved him as she
loved another in her girlhood days is diffi
cult to determine, but her manners became
more gentle and womanlike, she was less
imperious with her underlings, and spared
a giert deal of time teaching nini his par is.
His feelings were easier probed; Conrad
Clarke did not love Charlotte Cushman.
Hie nature was too selfish to permit him to
leel so pure and disinterested a passion as
love iu its highest sense. Matters had thus
stood for some months.
One evening Miss Cushman was going to
the theatre alone, when a weak, haggard
looking woman approached her with a baby
in her arms. iShe was a small, red-haired,
fragile creature. Laying her hand on Miss
Cusliman's arm, she said:
'Miss Cushman, I think a woman of
your genius and position might have plenty
of admirers without taking up with the hus
band of a poor woman like me.'
The tragedienne paused in blank amaze
'Are you talkiug to mc?' she asked.
'And you say 1 have taken your hus
band from vouf'
*1 don't know you; ma> 1 ask the name
of this precious husband of y.rnrsf'
'Conrad Ciarke,' was the reply.
The great actress hurried away. She
had received a blow, but she met it with
a brave front, as she had many others in
her not altogether smooth* path in life. All
smiles, bows, and honeyed words Clarke
greeted her tnat night. She gave a death
blow to all his hopes, uot tenderly, as
many a woman so situated might have
done, but with characteris'ic decision. On
learning from his wife what she had done,
he became furious at what he declared to
be a malicious scheme to ruin him, and,
leaving her, swore never to live with her
again. Annie Clarke easily obtained a
divorce from him, and shortly after mar
ried an actor, named Forest, of Cleveland,
liy a strange concatenation of circum
stances, Clark's child was adopted and
most tenderly reared by one of our bright
est wits, the only one of his peculiarly
caustic kind left, a man who wields a
powerful weapon in his pen—who has two
parties for and against him —oue that nates
and fears him, tiie other tnat loves auil
Alguau Suldle ,
The relations between the officers and
men remind one of those existing in the
Turkish army. It an Afghan officer driuks
tea, a number of soldiers are sure to 3it
around him. If he smokes a kaliana, all
the soldiers gather near him and await their
turn; the kaliana , having gone the round
of the privates, returns again to the officer.
If a soldier smokes a pipe, the officer asks
him to let him have a draw at it. Should
a soldier take from the folds of his dress a
tobacco pouch, in order to put a plug of to
bacco uuder his tongue, the officer inserts
his tiuger and thumb into the pouch also,
and takes a pinch of tobacco. On the
other baud, should the officer take out his
own pouch, the soldier helps himself in a
similar manner to his tobacco. I did not
observe that the mutual freedom of manner
had any detrimental effect on the descipline
of the troops. The men obeyed the com
mands of their officers with docility, and
never displayed insubordination when sen
tenced to be thrashed. Indeed, it is ex
ceedingly rare that officers employ the
lash. During the whole of my sojourn in
Afghanistan, I only saw the punishment
inflicted twice; on both occasions on men
who had stolen hay from my horses.
Ihe Flowery Island.
Right out of the sea, 450 miles from the
Florida coast, rises a huge rock, twenty
two miles long by seven wide. It is the
smallest of the Bahama Islands and is
called New Providence. It nestles in a
wilderness of flowers, plants and fruits.
There is not a tree, shrub or flower thai
thrives in any warm climate that does not
grow luxuriantly there. It is a r >ck upon
which these beauties grow and blossom,
and over which a never-ending summer
hrecse blows the seeds of health by tem
pering the warmth of a tropical sun until
it strikes a happy medium where all season
is summer and manaind basks in an at
mosphere practically invariable twelve
months in the year, and trees, shrubs and
flowers thrive in chaotic profusion all the
It is a calcareous rock of coral, soft and
pliable to the mechanic's hand, filled with
shells and sand, and spit upon by the ocean
until cemented with its brine. The surface
iu places rots, forms a thin soil, and in
this, and wherever a crack or crevice is
found, the gayest flowers bloom. To de
scribe its inhabitants would be to parade
before you a mass of colored men, women
and children, cheaply but ueatly dressed,
barefooted aud bonnetless, but happy, po
lite. Out of a population of 15,000 more
than 12, (XX) are uegroes, an (J unusually
intelligent. Shining out from this dark
ness is now and then a native white face,
intelligent and healthy, and at this season
numbers of foreigh faces, which look as if
in search of health. The houses are as
neat as the people, aud all of them are
smothered in flowers and shrubbery. In
almost every yard, as well as growing
wild, are coco&nuts, oranges, guaves, sola
dill os, mangoes and all sorts of fruit hang
iu all stuges—bud, blossom, half grown
and the matured fruit. The drives over
the towu and through the island are su
perb, smooth as a floor and of solid rock,
lined on either side with tangled sweeping
vines, stunted trees and flowering plants.
The oleander lowers its high hi ad among
the more prelentiojs tropical plants, while
our own modest morning glory, so dear to
our childhood, peeps out from behind the
leaves with the dew resting upon its purple
lips to be kissed away by the morning sun.
No tongue can tell or pen write the leau
ties, cither of land or sea, wnich are every
where visible. Fruits are the principlo
staples, and upon these the natives live to
very great extent. All tropical varieties
grow in abundance, and are remarkably
rich und nutritious. Every variety of fish
is taken and enters very largely into the
domestic economy of the natives. The
chief industry of the island is sponge gath
His name v&s Bismarck, mit only vone
eye, on accoundt of a old plack cut, vot
pelongs to a serfant Irish gals mit red
haired hair. Also he has only dree legs,
on accoundt of mocolotif engines mitout
any bull-ketcher. He vas a dog, Bismarck
vas. He vas paldt -headed all ofer himself,
in gonsequense of red hot vater, on accoundt
of fightin' mit a cat. On vone endt of
himself vas skituated his head—und his
tail vas py de oder endt. He only carries
about vonc-half of his tail mit him, on
occoundt of a circular saw-mill. He looks
a goodt teal more older as he is already, but
he ain't quite as oldt as dot until de next
De vay dot you can know him is, if you
calls him "Shack," he von't say notings,
but he makes answers to de name "Bis
marck," by saying "Pow vow vow?"—
und. in de meantime, vagging half of his
tail —dot oder nafs vas cut off, so he can't,
of course, shake it. Also, if you t'row
stones on top of him, he vill run like de
tuefel, aud holler "Kyyi! ky yi!" Dot's
de vay you cau told my dog.
He looks like a cross between a bull
foundtlandt und a cat mit nine tails—but
he aiu't. He got not efen vone whole tail,
und he ain't cross not a bit.
Anoder vay you could told if it vas my
Bismarck is dot he vas almost a dwm. He
vould be half of a bair of dwma dot time,
only dere vas dree of them—a bair of
dwius und a half. I pelieve dey calls dot
a tr plet.
Also he got scars on de top of his side,
vhere he scratched himself mit a Thomas
cat —but dot Thomas cat nefer recovered
You can also tell Bismarck ou accoundt
of his vonderful iushtinct. lie can out
iushtinct any dog vot you nefer saw in my
life. For inshtance, if you pat him on top
of his head mit my hand, he knows right
avay del you like him, but if you pat him
on the head ixiit a pavement shtones or
de slitick of a proom, he vill shuspect
right off dot you care not fery much about
t HHlilutiMbie Cutis.
(Callers seated in the parlors of au up
'l've heard she gave three hundred dol
lars for that group, I'd just as soon have a
chrouio, wouldn't you ?'
'And just look at that center table—
looks like a fancy fair for all the world;
one would think—'
'H u-s-h, she's coming.'
(Enter lady of the house.)
'Oh, you dear darling creatures! What
an age since I've seen you. Where have
you been? Enjoying the holidays,no doubt.
1 'in so glad to see you both.'
(Together.) 'And we are so glad to see
you! how perfectly sweet you do look!
What have you been doing to yourself?
Oh, it's that lovely new dress 1 sobeooiningl
but then you look well in everything I'
•Oil 1 oh! Who's got a new seal skin
cloak ? Dear Mrs. Smith, I j ust envy you;
it's a be a-utiful tbiug!'
Mrs. Smith —'Well, it ought to be
James gave four hundred and twenty-five
dollars for it.'
'Yes, but that's nothing for Col. Smith,
you know 1 How is he ? 1 do admire the
Colonel so much! But then he never looks
at any one but you.'
'Oh 1 yes! make me believe that! He's
a regular old flirt 1 but I forgive him for
everything since he's got me this cloak.
Well, we really must go; ever so many
more calls to make. Now, return tins
soon, there's a darling. By-by sweetness.'
(Lady of the house to next caller.)
*Yes, that Mrs. Col. Smith aud her sister
—what a dowdy that sister is—did call
here, and, do you believe, she had the im
pudence to tell me—me —that her hus
band gave four hundred aud twenty-five
dollars for that shabby old seal skin, as if
I didn't know exactly what it was north I
He'd much better pay his debts,' etc., etc.,
For a quiet wedding at home there are,
• first, the invitations, which involve, as a
i rule, two card-plate* and a note-meet
k r r inted on the finest of heavy white paper.
| M onograms and special design* have been
nearly discarded, and the fashionable text
is a plain, simple, legible script, beautifully
i engraved. The cost depends upon the
number of letters, but, on the average, for
■ 100 invitations, the cost will be S2O, with
an additional $5 for each additional 100,
unless the order exceeds 600, when a
moderate discount is given. For 500
guests the stationer sends in his bill for
from S4O to S6O. The rsge at present
seems to be for floral decorations; and
although nature scatters her blossoms and
verdure with a generous hand, and never
sends in a bill, the florist is by no means
so liberal. A plain unostentatious display
of smilax and flowers may be procured for
fifty dollars, and that is about the lowest
figure for which a fashionable florist would
think of sending his bill. Exotics, oriental
palms, and ferns are not included in such
a decoration; nor are bridal bells, and
hearts, and canopies, beneath which the
happy pair receive the congratulations of
their friends. Single pieces of their de
scription—and very ungraceful ones at
that though woven of rare exotics—often
cost from $75 to $l5O and where a number
are required, the bill soon crawls up to a
good sized figure. Good taste snd fertility
of suggestion can, however, accomplish
wonderful results with SIOO, particularly
where elegance is preferred to a dumb show
of magnificent profusion.
Then comes the collation—say for 150
guests—served quietly in the dining-room,
it is a moot point whether it pays to em
ploy a caterer and commit the whole item
of collation, wines, and attendance to his
hands, or to undertake the woik one's self,
with the training of servants, and the
illimitable protiabilitiesof broken porcelain
and mislaid silver. Those who have had
most experience in wedding and dinner
parlies aver, as a rule, that it costs less
n oney and gives better satisfaction, inde
pendent of personal trouble and the vex
ation arising from the blunders of hired
attendants, to take the former coarse. For
a simple collation for 150 guests, about the
lowest figures given by caterers are $2 per
capita, and from that to sl2, which was
regarded as embracing all the requirements
that could possibly be asked.
For a wedding breakfast, served in a
very quiet way, $1.50 per capita represents
tne lowest limit of caterers' prices; and
this is probably less than it would cost the
bride's father to buy the materials and
make provision for their preparation and
service. It is not unusual this winter
however; on very quiet occasions, to be
content with a service of cake and wine
only. Wpdcing cake for one hundred per
sons, done up in pretty boxes, stamped
with monegrama, is furnished at from S3O
to SSO, according to the style of the box;
for one of these dainty little trifles, with
painting by hand on the lid, all satin and
gilding, may be rendered as expensive as a
casket of gold, or, in the extreme of sim
plicity, furnished for next to nothing.
Of course, after all, the main item of
expense is the bridal trousseau. The attire
for the ceremonv, the white satin, brocaded
or not, with bridal veil, orange bljasoms,
and toilet accessories, may—exclusive of
laces and jewels—be procured for SSOO.
In fact, one can readily spend from SI,OOO
upwards in order to give one daughter in
marriage in harmony with the ritual ot
No cat could have walked into the Cen
tral Station, Detroit, more softly than did
a long-waisted, low-voiced stranger about
40 years old, whoee hands wen: encased in
badly worn cotton gloves, hat brushed
clear down below the nap, boots wanting
new heels, and dress coat showing a cot
ton edge all around. He was neither a
great general, statesman nor'orator. He
simply desired to make a few inquiries,
and he softly said :
'My arrangements are such that I shall
be in Detroit until after Washington's birth
day. lam a great admirer of the lamented
gentleman, and I always make it & point
to celebrate his birthday. *
'Which is patriotic and all right,' replied
the captain of police.
'1 wanted to ask what latitude the police
would allow me on such an occasion?'
continued the man. 'I shall certainly get
drunk; but will I be permitted to tear dowu
stoves, smash up bars, break windows and
kick in doors ?'
'Certainly not. The first move you make
in that direction will result in your being
*Woi id, eh? Well, 1 simply inquired for
information. 1 supposed would be doing
the lamented gentleman full honor if I sim
ply got drunk ?'
'1 think so.'
'Very well, I don't want to seem cap
tious in the matter, nor do 1 care to get
into any trouble. I think I will get drunk
early in the morning.'
'And wave the American Hag from the
window of my boarding house —wave it
'And make a speech to my landlady on
thwajooduess and greatness of the lamented
gentleman —make it very gently and quiet
ly, without any cheers or applause.'
'Yes, that would do.'
'And then go down into the back yard
and hurrah about three times —not yell
like u Pawnee Injun, nut softly and quietly
hurrah for George Wellington, the father
of his couutry.'
'Well, don't disturb anyone.'
'No, of course not- Alter hurrahing 1
will return to my room, take another drink
read the Declaration of ludepandence, and
make a speech to myself—not a ranting,
blatant oratoncal effort, but a soft and mild
sort of peroration, ending up with the song
entitled, 'My Country, 'tis of Thee,' and so
'Yes, that's good.'
Then I'll take another drink and go to
bed and lie there daring the remainder of
the day, unless the landlady insists on an
other speech, and I don't think she will.
Now, then, are my terms perfectly sal La
'Very well, then —adieu. A mild, gen
tle drink —subdued oratory —gentle wav
ing—repressed hurrahing—harp-like peio
ration, and you are satisfied, I am satisfied,
and the lamented gentleman has got to be
satisfied or provide his own brass bands.
Perfectly k'rect—farewell 1'