a
Bellefonte, Pa., July 25, 1890.
O’GRADY’S GOAT
A True Tale of Roaring Fun in Shanty Row,
and the End.
O'Grady lived in Shanty row,
The neighbors often said
They wished that Tim would move away
Or that his goat was dead.
He kept the neighborhood in fear,
And children always vexed;
They couldn’t tell jist whin or where
That goat would pop up next..
CHORUS.
Now you can bet your coat
That if there’s foon afloat,
The nabors charge the divilment
To Tim O'Grady’s goat.
Wid goons an’ sticks an’ knives,
The Drs an’ the wives
Have thried mosht all their lives
To find and kill O’Grady’s goat.
Ould Missis Casey stood wan day
The dirty clothes to rub :
Upon the washboord when she dived
eadforemosht o'er the tub.
She lit upon her back an’ yelled
As she was lying flat:
“Gio git yer goon an’ kill the bashte—
O'Grady’s goat doon that.”
Pat Doolan’s woife hung out the wash
Upon the line to dry;
She wint to take it in at night,
Butstopped to have a cry. ;
The sleeves av two rid flannel shirts,
That once were worn by Pat,
Were chewed off almost to the neck—
O’Grady’s goat dcon that.
They had a party at McCune's,
An’ they wor having foon,
Whin suddinly ther was a crash,
An’ ivirybody roon.
The iseter soup fell on the floor
An’ nearly drowned the cat; '
The stove was knocked to smithereens—
0’Grady’s goat doon that.
Moike Dyle was coortin’ Biddy Shea,
Both standin’ at the gate,
An’ they wor jist about to kiss
Aich oother sly and shwate,
They coom togither loike two rams,
An’ mashed their noses flat.
They niver shpake whin they goes by—
0'Grady’s goat doon that. .
O’Hooleran brought home a keg
Av danimite wan ay
To blow a cishtern in his yard,
An’ hid the stuff away.
But suddenly an airthquake coo,
O’Hooleran, house an’ hat,
An’ ivirything in sight wint up—
0’Grady’s goat doon that.
The folks in Grady’s naberhood
All live in fear or fright;
They thinks it's ceriain death to go
Around there after night.
An’ in their shlape they sce a ghost
Upon the air afloat, ;
An’ wake thimsilves by shoutin’ out:
“Luck out for Grady’s goat.”
# # # ® ®
Wan winter morning whin the snow
Was deep upon the ground,
Men, women, children—in a crowd—
Were sad an’ shtandin’ round
The form of wan, cold, stiff an’ dead,
An’ shtickin’ down his throat
Was Mag McGinty’s bushtle fasht—
That inded Grady’s goat. .
— Will S. Hays, in Louisville Courier-Journal.
———————t
#
THE MUSIC MAN.
“Aunt Betsey,” said Delia Gray,
“can I go over Lo Drew place, to sing
ing school, to-night?”
“No, you can't and there's an end
on’t,” said Aunt Betsey Blatchford,
for her at the specified hour she was
all ready, in the stiff, rustling pink
dress, the freshly ironed laces and a
little pair of brown cotton gloves over
frilled ribbon wristlets that were en-
tirely new.
“But it’s the last time,” sbe sighed.
“Aunt Betsey thinks that music is use-
less and nonsensical, and she won't
have me fooling away my time at sing-
ing school, she says.”
“Oh, Delia—and those lessons on
the melodeon that I have been giving
you at Dr. Barlett’s.” .
“They will all be: of no use,” said
Delia, with a litile tremor in her voice.
“Does she know that people some-
times earn their living by the aid of
music ?"’ persisted Wayte.
“She don’t believe it!"
“And you have such a taste for it,
Delia! Nay, more than a taste—a de-
cided talent. Oh, we must not let the
thing drop. You must have a melode-
on—it won't cost much to hire one by
the quarter—and you go on with your
lessons |”
Delia shook her head.
“It will be impossible,” said she
mournfully.
“J’]] gee about that,’ said Marcus
Wayte. “My cousin is in the business’
I'll send him to see your aunt.”
Delia shrugged her pink calico shoul-
ders. “Ah,” said she, “you don’ know
Aunt Betsey!”
“Well,” smiled Marcus, “we'll see.”
Mr. Ives Wayte listened with the
most earnest interest to the tale of his
cousin, the schoolmaster.
“Got a real talent for music, eh?”
said he.
“A most decided one.”
“And poor ?”
“She ig,” answered Marcus. “But
the old lady has plenty of money, if
only she chose to spend it in this way ;
and she ought to do so.”
“Tlenty of money! And plenty of
prejudices, eh ?”
“That is it, exactly,” said Marcus,
smiling.
“Very well. I'll promise to do the
best I can—to oblige you, Mark. For,
added Mr. Ives Wayte, with a genial
twinkle of the eye, “I see your heart is
in the business.”
“It is,” frankly confessed Marcus.—
“For if Delia Grey could be qualified
to give music lessons we might be mar-
ried and take the Weirsells academy at
once—a day and boarding school, dea’t
you see? And she is the dearest iittle
thing.”
Mr. Ives Wayte laughed.
good as done,” said he.
It was a dreary, rainy night toward
the close of that dreariest month of all
the year—the sad November—when
there came a knoet at Mrs. Blatch-
ford’s door. Shewas alone. Thomas
Bates, the hireJman, bad gone to sce
his brother off on the stearaer for Flo-
rida, where Ae was intending to start an
orange or¢dard— Delia Grey had been
sammonéd to the beside of a sick
neighbor, where she was to remain un-
til late. But Mrs. Blatchford had yet
to see the tramp, the wild animal or
the tage one of whom she entertained
“It's as
knitting away as if her needles were
made of sheet lightning and her elbows
worked by electricity.
Delia looked sober enough. She a8
a tall, fresh complexioned girl of i or
18, with large brown eyes, a faehea
surmounted by naturally curli& rings
of chestnut hair, and asweet ed mouth
always ready to break iO gracious
smiles.
She had worked hax! all day mak:
ing soft soap and fipshing off the fami-
ly ironing, but het labors had been
cheered by the asticipation of the even-
ing “singing school” that was to
come.
It is mo than likely that Aunt Bet-
sey knewall this, but she sat there
like a determined Fate in a brown cali-
eo gown and fluted cap frills. Aunt
Betsey was the autocrat of Redberry
farm. She owned the house and sur-
younding acres and the quarts mill by
the river,and Delia,althongh by courte-
ey called her niece, was really only a
distant relation who, if not taken in
and brought up by old Mrs Blatchford,
would have been turned over to the
tender mercies of the town poor house.
“Delia's a good girl enough,” said
the old woman, *‘and a spry worker as
ever was. But I don't believe in girls
Jarking around the neighborhood the
hull time. They're a deal better off
at home, sewin’ on their patch work or
cutting’ rags for a new kitchen carpet.”
“But I promised the schoolmaster,
Aunt Betsey,” said poor Delia, her dim-
pled face falling like the barometer be-
fore a storm. ‘He's to call for me at
half past seven! And he will see
me safe home afterward.”
“Well, let him go away again,” said
Aunt Betsey. :
Delia could hardly see the glitter of
the knitting needles through the tears
that blurred her vision at these cruel
words.
“There's to be a daace out in the old
barn afterward’ she ventured to add,
“gnd 1 ironed my pink calico dress so
neatly, and my laces are all done up!
Oh, Aunt Betsey, I'd work so hard at
the carpet ra. s all the rest ot the week
if you would let me go this once to
singing school.”
Aunt Betsey wheeled herself round
in her chair and eyed Delia sharply
through the moon like glasses of her
big silver howed spectacles.
“Well, well, go if you want to,” said
she tartly. “Though all this music is
nothin’ but clear waste o' time. In my
young days if we could join in the
psalm tunes in church it was all folks
expected of us!”
“Everybody plays and sings nowa-
days,” ventured Delia, whose loftiest
and brightest aspiration was for a me-
lodeon or a cheap parlor organ of her
own.
“Humph !"" commented Aunt Betsey.
“They’d a deal better play on the
washboard and sing calling home the
cows! That's the sort of music that
ys Mm
Delia sighed and abandoned the
question. Consent to go to “singing
school” was sufficient of a victory for
the present time. And when Marcus
Wayte, the village pedagogue, called
che le&st fear. She got up and weat
to the door. There stood a dripping
traveler on the threshold.
“Is Mrs. Nugent's place near here ?”
said he, taking off his cap in spite of
the rain.
“Bless your heart, no!” said Mrs.
Blatchford. “It’s nine good miles away
on the other road. How ever came
vou to take this way ?”
“I've a parior organ here,” said the
music man, glancing backward at the
dim otline of a wagon in the road,
“that I was to deliver to Miss Nugent.”
“Guess you'll hardly deliver it to-
night,” said Aunt Betsey. “A parlor
organ, eh ? For Matildy Nugent?
Well, I wonder what folly she'll be
guilty of next,”
“Would you kindly allow me to
bring it in here?’ asked Mr. Ives
Wayte, with bis most ingratiatory air.
“What, in all the rain ?”
“Oh, it is safely packed in rubber
wrappings. [t won't injure this nice
new carpet,” said the bland traveler,
‘that reminds me of one my mother
has just finished up in Nantucket.”
“Yes,” said she, “vou may fetch it
in. I never seen a parlor organ. There
was a man came by with one in plum
time with a monkey at the end of a
long string”
“Oh, this is quite a different affair,”
winced the music man, “If I could
sleep to-night in your barn”’——
“You needn't do that,” said Aunt
Betsey, quite propitiated Ly the hum-
ble air and manner of this chance visi-
tor.—* There's a spare bedroom openin’
out of the kitchen that you're welcome
to.”
“Many thanks, madam,” bowed the
agent. ‘‘As I was about to remark, if
you will kind'y give me house room I
should like to play a few airs for you
on this instrament, just to show you its
tune and compass.”
“Well,” said Aunt Betsey, who never
objected to a treat which she could get
for nothing, “it would be rather a joke
for me to hear Matildy Nugent's organ
afore she heard it herself, wouldn't it,
vow ? I guess, young man, you may
put it up if it ain’t too much trouble.”
The music man dried himself before
the fire, Ile refreshed himself with a
plate of Aunt Betsey’s excellent dough-
nuts and a drink of her cider, and then,
cheered both in mind and body, he ap-
plied himself to business and soon set
the melodeon up in the little sitting
room. :
“It ain’t bad looking’, said Mrs.
Blatchford, viewing it meditatively.
Mr. Ives Wayte sat down before the
instrument, and touched it with a mas-
ter hand.
He played “Rock of Ages,” “Shin-
ing Shore,’, “Bruce’s Address,” *“Kil-
larney” and a few such age worn vete-
rans of melody.
“Kin you play “Old Rosin the Bow?”
suddenly demanded Aunt Betsey with
something like tears in her eyes.
“I think I can,” said Mr. Ives Wayte,
and he evoked the sadly sweet chords
| of the old time lay with “crescendo”
and “*diminuendo’ like the wail of a
human voice. ;
“Seems ‘most like ’twass speakin’,”
said Mrs. Blatchford. “I pever know-
ed there was so much in the parlor or-
gans. Be they very costly, mister ?”
Mr. Ives Wayte named the price.—
Aunt Betsey hesitated—shook her head
—poudered.
“Jt seems a good deal o’ money,”
said she. “Bat, arter all, what's mon-
ey 2—And Delia, she’s dreadful fond of
music. I'm most certain she could
learn to play that there instrument,and
it sort o’ sounds nice to hear them old
fashioned tunes that folks used to sing
when I was a gal | My money's my
own, I guess, to do as I'm a mind to!”
half defiantly.—*“And I will! I say,
Mr. Musicman, if you leave that me-
lodeon just where it stands, and cart up
another for Matildy Nugent, I'll take
it and pay you cash down for it,” said
Mrs. Blatchford.—*“There now.”
“Well,” said he, “since you desire it,
I think it might be managed. The in-
strument is here. That counts for
something.”
“I's proper sightly,’ said Mrs.
Blatchford. “Delia has been a good,
hard workin’ girl. Play that last tune
over again, Mr. Musicman—she’s com-
in’ up the path now. I heerd the gate
latch creak.”
“Am I dreaming?’ she cried.
“What is this? How came it here?
Oh, Aunt Betsey” --—-
“It's a present I'm goin’ to make
you Delia,” said the old lady, with
beaming eyes. “Come here and kiss
me! And I'll hire Miss Barton to give
you music lessons—and we'll take solid
comfort out o’ this ‘ere! See if we
don't.”
The music man pocketed a roll of
bills and went his way rejoicing. Mar-
cus Wayte heard the tidings with great
Little Miss Barton welcomed the
news of a new scholar with heartfelt
thankfulness—and Aunt Betsey went
around the house bamming “Those
Evening Bells” and wiping the dust off
a new joy every few minutes.
“It’s something to get ahead of Ma-
tildy Nugent,” said she. “And Delia's
been a good, dutiful gal all her life”
“Didn't I tell you it was as good as
done?” said Ives Wayte to his cousin
when next they met.
“I think,” said Marcus, laughing,
“you ought to have a diplomatic ep
pointment.’
“It pays better to be an agent,” ob-
served the music man, composedly.
He Came At Last
And His Honor Made Him Stay in the
City Full Ninety Days.
«Your Honor,” said a tall, gaunt.
stoop-shouldered man that had been ar-
rested on a charge of excessive conviv-
iality, “it would forever ruin me to te
convicted by this court, and I therefore
beg of you to let me go home and at-
tend to my numerous duties.”
“What are your numerous duties ?”’
the judge asked.
«I keep a grocery and dry-goods store
at Billings Station, and besides, I am
postmaster at that place.”
“Qh, you are a cross-roads postmaster,
are you 7°’ Lhe judge catlaiuwed. “Ah,
vou have afforded me an opportunity
that I have long been seeking. I have
been in your store and have asked if
there was a letter for me. I am delight-
ed to have you appear before me, sir.
I had hoped and prayed to have you ar-.
raigned here, and as day afterday I
met with disappointment, I had begun
to fear that this time would never
come.”
“You must be mistaken, your Honor,
for 1 am positive that you were never in
my house.”
Oh, probably notin your particular
house, sir, but you are all alike. Let
me give you a little picture: Four
o'clock in the afternoon. The mail
comes. A bey brings in the bag and
throws it on the counter. The people
stand about, waiting for their mail, cir-
culars from patent medicine men, and
packages of seeds from Congressmen,
and so on. Just as you are aboat to
open the mail, and after you have
snoved a lot of old rails in the fire and
have baited your mouse-trap, a fillow
comes along with a spring wagon load
of eggs. You haggle with him awhile
and then agree to take the eggs. Then
you begin to count them, pausing every
now and then to shake one to deternine
whether or nt it is good. You unt
eight hundred and seventy eggs and
turn round to attend to the mail vhen
a lank, hump-shouldered boy cones in
and says he wants to buy’ al pair
of boots. Then you begin to haul
cut your brogan boots and tirow
them about in an effort to get a par to
fit him ; and. just as he is about try
them on, he hears a noise outsid¢ and
makes a break for the door, thrilled
with the fear that his horse has hoken
loose, Hae comes back after while
and you sell him a pair of twodollar
boots for three dollars and a half By
this time somebody say, ‘Jim, whn air
you goin’ to stribute that mail 27 ©utty
soon, now,” you reply, and then yu go
out and break up some more old rls to
put into the stove.
“By this time it is ten minutesafter
five o'clock. You go behin{ the
counter, take up the mail-bag ant then
discover that you have mislaid th key.
Somebody thatsaw you have tk key
just before you begau to count thiegas,
declares that you dropped it in th box.
You say that you wouidn’t be sunrised
and then begin to take out thaeggs.
You take out the eight hundrg and
seventy eggs, and, not finding th key,
wonder where you could have jut it,
and then proceed to put the egg back
agin,
“At seven minutes to six you fid the
key lying on the counter under piece
of manilla paper on which yol have
wiped your greasy hands. Tha you
begin to fuss with the lock on thimail-
bag, and you wonder what can e the
matter with it—never acted so |efore.
Must be rusty. Some fellow tes you
to warm it and then you hold it gainst
the stove. Just then a girl, weting a
red shawl over her head, comesh and
wants a pound of candles. ell, it
goes on this way until nearlgseve:
o'clock, and then you open thimail,
and the first letter you take ups ad-
dressed to John W. Woodbridge, You
read the name and say . ‘I don’lknow
who heis. Any body know hint No
one knows him, buta fellow tht has
been standing with his elbows on the
counter, lifts his head, spits through his
teeth and says that it must be intended
for that fellow that came into the neigh-
borhood sometime ago to see one of the
Bennet girls. You putthe letter aside af-
ter looking at it with grave suspicion
and then say : “Here is a letter for old
Bill Hickley. Any.body goin’ out his
way ?” A bow-leg fellow says that he
will be going out that way day after to-
morrow, and you let him take the let-
ter. You keep up this thing until near-
ly eight o’clock, and, then sit down to
read a newspaper that has been sent to
some other man. Yes, sir,” the judge
continued, “I am glad to have you here,
for 1 shall punish you for some of your
numerous crimes. I will make your
visit to this city last ninety days.”’—Ar-
kansas Traveler.
Grover Cleveland's Generosity.
Here is a true story about ex-Presi-
dent Grover Cleveland that has never
been published and to our certain
knowledge is not known outside of a
small circle, says the Helena (Mont.)
Independent, It is good evidence of the
large-hearted generosity of a man who
has suffered more lying misrepresenta-
tion than any public man of the present
time: In the class of 1838 in Hamilton
college there was a young man who had
begun his education at the sge of 21.
when he could neither read nor write.
In place of money he had plenty of am-
bition, and after a hard struggle with
fortune he prepared hithselt for college
and entered with money enough to car-
ry him through the first year. He
wanted to graduate with hisjclass, but as
he had neither funds nor triends he
found himself in an embarrassing situa-
tion at the opening of the sophomore
year. He had never seen President
Cleveland, but one day ina moment of
despair he sent a letter to the White
House stating his circumstances, his
hopes, etc., and closing with an appeal
to the President for financial help. It
was of course a ‘‘nervy’’ request, and
the President would have been entirely
justified in dropping it in the waste bas-
ket. Instead of doing this he wrote a
personal letier to his old friend, Prof.
Oren Root, of Hamilton, asking if the
student was a worthy fellow. The pro-
fessor, whose kindly generosity runs be-
yond his favorite square of infinity, re-
turned a satisfactory reply to Mr. Cleve-
land’s inquiry. ‘Within two weeks it
was evident to the students on Hamil-
ton’s beautiful campus that our ambi-
tious friend hud made a raise. He
bloomed out in a new suit of clothes and
showed other signs of prosperity, and he
announced to his class men that he had
decided to stay with them. He graduat-
ed witha prize oration and 1s now
working his way to the pastorate of a
Presbyterian church. The ex-presi-
dent's charity may have come trom the
remembrance of his own struggle to
reach the freshman vear of “Old Hamil-
ton.” When the college walls were al-
most within his reach he was forced to
turn to the world to find support for his
widowed mother and sisters, and thus
suffer, as he once remarked, ‘‘a depriva-
tion that seemed to grow with advanc-
ing years.” At any rate he will £nd no
more ardent supporter for the next pres-
idenecy than the student who found in
him the best friend of his life:
Vigorous Men in Old Age.
History gives us some remarkable in-
stances ol great achievement in the af-
ternoon of age, but they are rare excep-
tions. Chaucerdidn’t begin to write
the “Canterbury Tales” until he was
sixty, and at the sume age Milton was
hard at work on “Paradise Lost.” Ho-
mer, too, was on the edge of the sere
and yellow leaf when be put the finish-
ing touches to the Iliad,
Goldoni wrote some of his best plays
after his eightieth birthday. Word-
worth worked with apparently undi-
mished power at four-score and Goethe
continued to astonish the world at four-
score and three. George Bancroft will
be ninety in October, and until lately
wielded his pen with the grace of Sala-
din and the force of the lion Learted
Richard. Whittier at eighty-three
writes as sweetly as ever. Gladstone
still fells trees at eighty-one.
Herodotus tells us that King Argan-
thonius reached the wonderful age of
one hundred and fifty years. Cicero,
however, discounts the story, but is
willing to admit that he was one hun-
dred and twenty when he died. Agath-
ocles, the tyrant of Sicily, held his sov-
ereignty until he was ninety-five, and
Bardyllis, King of Persia, reached the
ripe age of one hundred, and then, tired
of life, committed suicide. Asander
was a vigorous soldier at ninety, but af-
ter his ninety-third birthday, when his
life was “as full of sorrows as the sea of
sands,” he starved himself to death.
Days of Sorrow.
How terrible they are—some days
that eat into the brain and stamp
themselves on the memory for all mor-
tal time ! We can forget weeks of plac-
id living, but never the pain that
com s with one day of grief.
A poor faded woman had been
brought into court, as witness in a dis-
agreeable case, involving very serious
issues. The entire case depended on
the fact that a paper had been signed on
a certain day, and this the forlorn little
woman was prepared to prove.
“You saw the paper signed ?’’ asked
the opposing counsel, in cross-exami-
nation.
“Yes, sir.” :
“You take your oath that it was the
30th day of August 27?
“ I know it was, sir.”
The lawyer, who thought another
date could be proved, nssumed an exas-
perating smile, and repeated her words.
“You knowit was! And now, be
so good as to tell us just how you
know it.”
The poor creature looked from one
countenance to another with wide, sor-
rowful eyes, as if she sought understand-
ing and sympathy. Then her gaze rest-
ed on the face of the kindly judge.
“T know,” she said, as if speaking to
him alone, ‘because that was the day
the baby died.— Youth's Companion
Don’t hawk, hawk, blow, spit,
and disgust everybody with your of-
fensive breath, but use Dr. Sage's Ca-
tarrh Remedy and end it. 50 cents, by
druggists. v
Crow Clutching.
The Novel Way the Hoosier Farmer Has
of Trapping the Cunning Bird.
RicamoxD, July 10: —Indiana farmers
in the back districts have a novel and
effective way of trapping crows. To
trap in this way the trapper must first
catch a crow alive, which is generally
done by crippling one with fine shot.
The live crow is the trap. Helis placed
on his back in the field and fastened in
that position by driving a forked stick
deep in the ground over each wing, near
the body. The crow’s feet have free
play, and there is no embargo put on
bis lungs. Any one who knows any-
thing about crows knows that the mo-
ment one is hurt or in trouble it makes |
the fact known by loud and peculiar
cries. There may not have been |
another crow seen or heard in the local- |
ity for hours, but in less than half a!
minute after the injured crow gives its |
ery of distress crows will come scurrying
in from all points of the compass, an-
phatic and assuring caws. The mo-
ment the distressed crow 1s discovered
can’t be removed, bear it away to a
set for something else.
carry it off with its prisoner.
have succeeded in releasing him from
this trap afterward no one knows.
Thelive crow fastened by its wings with
once the only sure and never failing
the most distressing of cries, and along
comes a flock of yelling crows in re- |
sponse to them. They pounce down
upon the prostrate bird to recue him.
The bound crow’s claws and legs are {ree
tw play at the bird’s will. In his des-:
peration he clutches the first crow that
sweeps within his reach. He not only
clutches, but he holds on like grim
death. Some oneis always in hiding
near by, and the moment the decoy |
crow fastens on and makes a victim of
the crow thet would befriend him, the
watcher hurries to the scene and cap-'
tures the captive’s captive. This crow
isin turn made a decoy in another part
of the field, and he isn’t long in fasten-
ing on to a victim from among the
would-be rescuers. In ten minutes af-,
ter the first crow is set a farmer has no
difficulty in getting half a dozen other
traps in operation, all doing steady and
infallible work on their excited and
philanthropic brethren. The farmer
may set as many crows as he likes, for
after getting his first one the supply
will last as long as there is a free crow
in the neighborhood, but halt a dozen
of these yelling and clutching traps,
well set, will depopulate any average
crow settlement in the courss of a day or
so. Cunning as the crow is, he throws |
his cunning all to the winds at sight of |
a comrade in distress and even so far |
loses his head under such circumstances !
as to fly to the wing-bound crow in a |
field after having been made a {rap of |
himself, as a ¢erow will sometimes man-
age to work his fastenings loose in the
ground by his struggles and escape.
One farmer of this county says he has,
with only five of the traps, caught
ninety-six erows in half a day.
Some of the Hoosier small boys of the
rural districts acquire such dexterity as
crow clutchers that they are able to
earr. big wages in their efforts to make
the big black bird extinct Their meth-
od is t lie close along the side of some
old log at the edge of a wood, covering
all but their eyes and one band with
leaves. Then, by a remarkably exact
imitation of a wounded crow, they soon
bring a score or more of the excited
birds swooping about the log A smart
boy can easily clutch a half dozen or
more of the crows before they discover
him, and they are worth tsn cents
apiece to him.
What the Preachers Said.
Story of Beecher,
An Alleged True
Talmage and an Equally Great
Unknown.
New York Sun.
There is a story of a trio of New York
clergymen, of which Beecher and Tal-
mage were two. The third, because he
was the relater, shall be unnamed.
These three were called upon to preside
at a certain public meeting. Talmage |
was to offer the prayer, Beecher to in-
troduce the speaker, and the third man
was the speaker. The three sat in all
the dignity of the cloth waiting for the
audience to come together. The hour
was just at hand. The speaker was seen
suddenly to lean forward and address
Mr. Beecher. Mr. Beecher responded and
they both addressed Talmage, who smil-
ed. Then the other two conferred again.
The audience wondered what it might
all mean. Were these reverend gentle-
men gravely entering upon a discussion
of some theological problem,or was there
some jar in the order of things for the
evening which they did not understand? |
The audience did not know, but they
sat deeply respectful. If only they had
had ears! For this was what was pass-
ing :
Said the speaker of the evening, lean-
ing over to Mr.{Beecher: ‘Beecher, I was
just thinking what a hard thing it will |
be for the Almighty to make three pass-
ably good-looking angels out of us three
wen.”
«Well, "responded Mr. Beecher, “I
acknowledge that it will try Omnipo-
tence to do anything with you and Tal-
mage, but He bas only to clap a pair of |
wings on me’
Then Talmage stepped into the dis-
cussion. Said he: “The Lord’s power,
like the Lord’s word, is wonderful in
our eyes, but I'll tell you one thing I've
often thought of that even the Lord
couldn’t do. He couldn’t make my
mouth any bigger without setting my
ears back, now, could be ?’’
-
——+0h, children | You are so noisy |
to-day. Can't you be a little stiller and
better 7" “Now, grandma, you must be
a little considerate and not scold us.
You see, if it wasn’t for us, you wouldn't
be a grandma at all.”
swering the signal of distress with em- |
place of safety, where itis nursed back
to soundness and health. Crows are
not often deluded into falling into ordi- | Wher. Columbus sighted the Island of
nary traps, but once in a while one will |
get his foot unawares into a steel trap
In answer to his |
cries his rescuing comrades have been
known to get enough of the flock’s
beaks and claws to bear on the trap to |
How they |
c will.
his back on the ground becomes at’
| customers kept coming in.
i shady side of the building.
| ly replied. -
ia gun on his hip
A Usetul Article,
After a housekeeper fully realizes the
worth of turpentine in tbe household
she is never willing to be without a sup--
ply of it, says the Home Queen. It
gives quick reliet to burns ; itis an ex-
cellent application for corns; it is good
for rheumatism and sore thoats. Then
itis a sure preventive against moths j
by just dropping a trifle in the drawers,
chests and cupboards, it will render the
garments secure fro: injury during the
summer. 1t will keep aunts and bugs
from the closets and storerooms by put-
ting a few drops in the corners and upon
the shelves. Itissure destruction to
bedbugs, and will effectually drive them:
away from their haunts if thoroughly
applied to all the joints of the bedstead),
and injures neither furniture nor cloth-
ing. A spoonful of it added to a pail of
warm water is excellent for cleaning
paint.
Was Columbus a Jew ?
Jews figure prominently in the history
of the discovery of America. The plans
and calculations of Columbus’ expedi-
by the others they swoop down upon it, | tion were largely the work of two He-
and unless it is held in duress by some
trap or contrivance of the enemy so it
brew astronomers and mathematicians.
Two Jews, also, were employed as in-
terpreters by Columbus, and one of
them, Luis de Torres, was the first Eu-
ropean to set foot in the New World.
San Salvador he imagined he was ap-
proaching a portion of the East Asiatic
coast and he sent Torres— who was en-
gaged for his knowledge of Arabic—
ashore to make inquiries of the natives.
It was, probably, this Torres who was
the Madrid Jew to whom Columbus be-
queathed half a mark of silver in his
Another curious fact is, that it
has been seriously suggested, by Dr.
Delitzch we believe, that Columbus
himself was a Jew, or of Jewish birth.
crow trap ever tried. He sends forth | The name Christopher was frequently
adopted by converts, while the surname
Colon was born by a distinguished fami-
lo of Jewish scholars. Christopher’s
brother, Diego, bore originally the Jew-
ish name Jacob, which soungds surpris-
ingly like a Shem Kadosh. Perhaps
during the coming celebrations some
Jewish scholars in Italy will make in-
quiry into the validity of this daring
suggestion.
Waiting for Sam.
A man with eleven weeks of wiry
hair and a long growth of beard stepped
into a barber shop in one of our two
cities the other day and sat down. Pro-
bably he was not in his best mood. At
any rate he looked cross, even though it.
was his next turn.
“N ext,’ said the barber.
“I'll wait for Sam,” said the man
with the hair and beard, and as he said
it he kicked at the dog and looked about
a> pleasant as a circular saw in motion.
“All right,” said the barber with em-
phasis. “Next.”
The ‘next’ got into the chair and
left the man who Was cross sitting by
the window, watching for Sam. Half
an hour passed. The shop was full and
there seemed to be a good deal of amuse-
ment among all except the man who
was waiting for Sam. One by one the
The clock
hands passed from 6.30 p, m., to 7:30
p. m., and then to 8:30 p. m. At about
this time the door opened and a head
popped in.
“Heard from Sam yet?” said the
head.
“Yes,” replied the barber.
“How is he ; having a good time ?”
“Guess he is. At any rate he says
he is.”
“When do you expect him home ?”’
“In about three weeks.”
The door slammed after the question-
er, just as the man with the beard, who
was waiting for Sam, jumped to his
feet. “Wh—what did you say ?"’ shout-
ed he. “Did you say Sam wasn’t com-
ing for three weeks ?”’
The barber repressed his smile. and in
a voice that was low and even toned, he
said : “Yes, sir. Sam is up country,
and we expect him back in about two
weeks and a half. But if you want to
wait for him we’ll make up abed for
you right here on’”’—but the rest was
i lost by the door slamming on the retir-
ing form of the man who was waiting
for Sam.— Lewistown Journal.
Explaining a Situation.
It was at a railroad depot in Tennes-
ser. It was a warm, fair day, and the
four or five of us who were going to
take the trainsat on a bench on the
Out on the
platform was piled a lot of cotton and to
the left of us sat three men, in the center
sat two, and three others were on our
right. Just why those eight men should
sit out therein the sun, each group
talking by itself and apparently obliv-
ious to the presence of the others, ex-
cited my curiosity, and by and by as a
negro drayman up after a couple of
barrels of salt, I asked him to explain.
“1 kin tell vo’, for shore,” he prompt-
“Dat crowd on de left is de
Bakers—ole man an’ two boys. Dat
crowd on de right is de Stevenses—ole
man an’ two boys. Dem air chaps in
de center is named Cook an’ Parsons.’”
“But why do they sit there ?”
“Dey dun has to, sah
“But what for ?”’
“Why, vo’ see de Bakers and de
Stevenses is inimies, an’dey shoot on
sight, Bet yo’ life each one of ’em has
1
“And the others ?”’
“Dey is sort o’ neutral. If a fuss be-
gun dey might hang by de Bakers or
they might go ober to the Stevenses.
Nobody can’t tell. 1f dey was away
dered be some righ smart fussin’ mighty
quick, butdey hole de balance of pow-
er, an’ as long as dey stay de odder
folks won't fuss.”
“How long have they been here ?”
“Since dis mawnin’, sah, but IT reckon
dere’s gwine to be a break up purty
soon. Dere goes the Baker crowd now.
I reckoned dey’d be tke furstto cave in.
‘Wall, dat eands up de fussin’ till next
time, and it won't be any use fur yo’ to
| hang around heah any longer.”’— New
York Sun.
——“ When you kick a cow just pause
and think that you are kicking dollars
out of your pocket.” This is the mer-
cenary view, leaving out humaneness.