Democratic watchman. (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1855-1940, January 12, 1894, Image 2

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    Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. 12, 1894.
To James Whitcomb Riley. ?
"Tis true, ‘there is ever a song somewhere,’
Yes, somewhere beneath the skies ;
But what does it matter and who shall care
If none in the heart arise ?
The trilling and cooing of wildvood nooks
Though sweet as a Seraph’s hymn—
The tenderest strain of the mountain brooks
Are distant too far and dim.
No music for such hath the moaning sea,
No anthem the wind swept pine,
*Tis only the poet, and none but he
Is blessed by these cords divine,
The “Psalm of Life,” its low, sad symphonies
Enwrought in each undertone,
That swells and rolls from the hidden keys
Are heard by his heart alone. o
— Juliette Estelle Mathis.
———_—__—_— al]
He seems to be several boys in one,
So much is he constantly everywhere !
And the mischievous things that boy has done
No mind can remember nor mouth declare.
He fills the whole of his share of space
With his strong, straight form and his merry
He is very cowardly, very brave,
He is kind and cruel, is good and bad,
A brute and a hero! Whowill save ;
The best from the worst of my neighbor's
lad ?
The mean and the noble strive to-day,
Which of the powers will have its way ?
The world is needing his strength and skill,
He will make hearts happy, or make them
: ache;
What power is in him for good or ill!
Which of life’s paths will his swift feet take?
Will he rise aud draw others up to him,
Or the light that is in him burn low and dim?
But what is my neighbor’s boy to me
‘More than a nuisance ? My “neighbor’s boy,
Though I have some fears for what he may be,
Is a source of solicitude, hope, and joy,
And a constant pleasure, because I pray
That the best tha t is in him may rule some
He passes me with a smile and a nod,
He knows I have hope of him, guesses, to,
That I whisper his name when I ask of God
That men may be righteous, his will to do.
And I think that many would have more joy
If they loved and prayed for a neighbor's boy.
—Christian Advocate.
When she died—and she was an old
woman—the two little cardboard box-
es, tied with white ribbon, and contain-
ing a tiny morsel of wedding cake,
were found in her bureau. But when
the first of these keepsakes caine into
her hands she was quite young, and,
in a way, even beautiful, though hers
was never a beauty which commanded
general attention, or caused her to be
looked after in the street.
Understand that, althongh I loved
her, and might, perhaps, have won her
for my wife, had it not been for him, I
am not blaming him at all. I am
not animated by any spirit of vindie-
tiveness in setting forth these facts,
which he will never see. I write them
only with a deep sense of their pathos ;
with a feeling of eternal pity for ber
and for him, and for myself. Who am
1? Be easy—no conscious egotism is
influencing me either. I am merely
the man who loved her, and my per
gonality need not be much obtruded on
you. Iam the man who loyed her,
and I tell the tale because I am abso-
lutely the only person who is able to
tell it. Helen herself is dead, and Ar-
nold Seymour never understood it.
That is why 1 pity and do not blame
him; he did not understand, he was
dense, and obtuse, and blind.
She lived with her younger sister in
a village in the shires. Since they
lost their mother, she had taken the
mother’s place. Her eyes were deep
and her face was grave ; she had many
responsibilities, and they had left their
mark upon her. She earned a hun-
dred, or may be a couple of hundred,
pounds a year by her pen—Ilittle senti-
mental stories in the ladies paper—and
this, coupled with her mother’s small
bequest, provided tor the two girls’
wants. Their cottage, which was free
hold, was the prettiest thing you ever
met with. It would almost reconcile
you to poverty to see it so refined.
Everything was of the cheapest, but
dainty and well chosen. And there
was a garden, with a few iruit trees
and many flowers, so that their table
never looked poor, although their
menu might be but the cold remains of
yesterday’s joint.
The younger girl, Lillian, was ex-
ceedingly lovely; but after that not
much remains to be said of her. It
was Helen who contrived, Helen who
decided everything. It was even Hel-
en who made the little sacrifices.
“Lillian is such a child,” she would
say apolegetically when this was point.
ed out to her, “che does not see ; she is
really more unselfish than Iam!” It
was declared that she felt herself re-
paid for anything she might have done
if Lillian gave her a passing kiss, and
exclaimed, “What a dear you are!”
And Lillian often exclaimed, “What a
dear you are!”’—carelessly, lightly.
It was the way she discharged her ob-
ligations and showed her gratitude.
One almost expected her to ask for a
receipt afterwards, the phrase on her
lips grew to have such a commercial
Many people noticed these details
besides myself, I beg to say. And I
would algo mention that it was not be-
cause Lillian showed small respect for
my sacred calling that I disliked her.
Were that eo, I should have been as
unfair as she was. I disliked her
simply and solely for her selfishness
towards her sister. Nevertheless her
raillery and laughter hurt me some:
times in the presence of the other. I
told her once, *‘I was a man before I
was a curate.” She answered me,
“T wish you had remained one after
wards.” And Helen turned her
face away to hide & smile. Poor Hel
en ; life held so few smiles for you, it
was petty of me to grudge you one!
Arnold Seymour and I had been at
Cambridge together. Of recent years
I bad sometimes met him, though we
bad never been more than acquaint.
ances. One summer he appeared in
Whiteoridge, and told me he had
come here to spend the vacation—he
was at the Bar—and to blow away the
cobwebs of his chambers. I
thought till then that the briefs were
very many with him, but he spoke as
if his practice were a large one, and,
seeing no reason why he should de-
ceive me, I viewed him as a man who
was already doing well. :
“And you,” be said, stretching his
legs in my sitting room on the evening
of his arrival, “what do you do in this
little Heaven deserted hole, my boy?
Your conscientious sermon, your dis-
trict—visiting, your amicable teas with
the provincial tables, no more? And
are you satisfied with it, have you no
ambition ? Or do you look forward
one day to being made a Bishop ?”
He did not wait for an answer—he
was never a man to be apnswered—but
blew a hugh cloud of cavendish from
his pipe, apd vowed a moment later
| that he would make me introduce him
to all the people in the place.
“They will amuse me,” he said, “by
their very primness; and I shall not
“stay long enough to let myself be
; bored !”
i It was in this way that I introduced
him to Helen Townsend and her sister;
and with that which followed I had
little or nothing to do. :
Helen grew to care for him, and he
fell in love with Lillian. Helen grew
to care for him, to watch for his com-
ing, to find the day dreary while he was
away. Lillian, flattered by attentions
suspecting her sister's secret : Seymour
engrossed by Lillian’s witcheries, re-
garded Helen less as a woman than a
duenna. Only I, the man who loved
her, saw the whole truth, and waited
the result with trepidation.
Oue day Seymour told me that all
was settled. I heard him with a feel-
ing that I could not analyze. For my
own sake I bad dreaded that Helen's
romance should end happily ; for hers
I had shuddered at the prospect of him
marrying Lily.
“You are engaged to Lillian?" I
He nodded, beaming at me from my
“Yes, he said, “I am engaged.
At twenty, I scoffed ; at thirty, I fall!
And to a village beauty—strange, isn’t
“Your ‘village beauty,’ ”’ 1 replied,
suggests a dairymaid. You are mar-
rying a gentlewoman ; what more do
you want?’
“Nothing,” he declared. “I am su-
premely content! We shall live, of
course in London, and town will soon
bring my little Phyllis up to date.
Congratulate me!” :
“Have you spoken to Miss Town-
gend yet 7’ I asked.
“Miss Townsend has consented,” he
answered. ‘Between ourselves, old
fellow, I do not fancy she is too well
pleased to be left alone, Not that she
said anything naturally ; but I could
gee | Her manner gave one the im-
pression of something held in reserve.
I had thought more highly of her, but
human nature is frighttully selfish at
its best.”
Not a perception, not an inkling of
the real truth ! At the moment I hated
him with all my heart.
1 called the following day at the cot-
tage to tender my felicitations to the
She was in the room alone. Helen,
she told me, was sitting in the garden.
the victim of a bad headche.
“So iricating, isn’t it?" she said with
a pout, “And at a time when I want
every one around me to be nice and
I was curious to ascertain whether
this girl, too, was wronging my dear
one's misery.
“At least,” I said distingenuously,
“you may be surethat in her heart she
is as glad for you can be yourself?”
Her eyebrows rose involuntarily in-
to her blonde fringe.
“Perhaps,” she responded. ‘Bat
you mustn’t forget it will be very dull
for Helen after I am gone!”
Again the unworthy suspicion, again
the self satisfied blindness !
“Where is Miss Helen 2” I inquired.
“May I join her 2”
“Oh, do,” said Lillian, “and try to
send her indoors again better ¢om-
pany !”
She was sitting under the apple tree,
her hands lving listlessly in ber lap.
It needed all my pains to conceal the
compassion that she made me feel.
To see her so, to know how those about
her were migjudging the sorrow that
she was struggling to hide, nearly
choked me.
“] was told you were not well,” I
said, with an effort. “I hope itis not
serious ?”'
“It is nothing—nothing at all I” she
murmured. “You came to congratu-
late Lily, of course ? And it was you
who introduced Mr. Seymour to us—
how grateful to you she should be.!”
“And you,” I questioned, ‘‘are you
too grateful 2”
There was a pause, so brief that un.
der ordinary circumstances I should
have failed to notice it.”
“Look at my sister's happy face,”
she replied, gently, and ask me then if
you still think it necessary !”
All my love for her, the love I knew
was vain, but could not stem, mounted
for confession.
“Helen,” I said, “I think you know
what I want to say, I think you have
known it for months. I do not ask if
(you care for me very ardently ; at least
you do not dislike me, and I am satis-
fied with that. Will you come to me
after you lose your sister 7—will you be
my wife, and let me try to make you
happy dear ?”
She put her hand on mine with a
gesture which was a denial before she
“I am so sorry,” she said softly, “so
terribly sorry and pained. Yes I did
know, I did see—I hoped you would
not ssk me ! Dear friend, I shall never
marry—I[ am not meant to be any
man's wife. I will not say that you
will be sure to forget this soon—I
know, or at least I can guess, that
such suffering as yours is not forgotten
I had not |
which were new to her, was far from.
easily—but do your best to forgel—
your utmost! Because never, never
shall I marry, as long as I live.”
I kissed ber fingers before they crept
up to her eyes. and turning on my heel
went back into the house.
“Ig Helen stopping out there still ?”
cried Lily. “Some patterns tor my
things have just come down, and I
want her to help me choose!” She
fluttered the samples complacently.
Lily became Mrs. Arnold Seymour,
and Helen lived on in Whitebridge
alone. She changed very painfully in
the year that followed her sister's wed-
ding. The gravity of her manner
deepened, and I fancied that she buried
herself in her work less from delight
in it, or from a desire of the pecuniary
reward, than to divert the current of
her thoughts. On three occasions the
Seymours sent her an invitation to go
and stay a week with them in London.
The first time she made some excuse ;
the second time she went, and returned
before the week had expired ; the third
she declined again.
When a child was born, however, it
was impossible for her to refuse to visit
them, and after that I gathered that
Helen Townsend had gained an interest
in her life.
It became her pleasure to make
things for the child—tiny garments, on
which she lavished a wealth of the
most intricate stitches. She never
made a journey into the neighboring
town without coming back with a cloak
or some pinafores, or a sun-bonnet, or
atoy. If Lillian were as devoted to
her baby as its aunt was, the mite
was indeed indulged, 1 thought. At
the same time I doubted whether Lil-|
lian would ever be very devoted in any
capacity. I sounded Helen once on
the subject ; “Is she a very proud
mamma?’ [I asked.
“Very I” answered Helen ¢ “and a
perfectly contented wife—or would be
if——. They are not overburdened
with money you ‘know !”
I had not known, and said as much.
“On thecontrary,” I answered, “Mr.
Seymour led me to believe be was an
exceedingly busv man.”
“I am afraid, then that he was guilty
of a little professional brag,” Helen
said ; “though, of course, what isa
scanty income for a family might easi-
ly have been enough for the require-
ments of a bachelor. No, their cir-
cumstances are scarcely affluent, that
is the truth.”
I began to think that her attentions
to her niece’s wardrobe and her indus-
try with her pen might have a deeper
motive than I had divined.
I had never distressed her by recurr-
ing to the love I felt for her, and, per
haps in reward for this, she had come
to admit me to a more intimate confi-
dence than that which had subsisted
between us formerly.
By degrees she used to discuss the
Seymour's position With me quite
frankly, suppressing only the fact of
the assistance which I was now certain
she gave. It appeared to me, though
I refrained from expressing the opinion,
that Seymour had committed an unjust-
ifiable act in marrying while his prac
tice was as yet so slight, and I wonder-
ed how Lillian bore the unexpected
straits to which his concealment of his
position had subjected her.
When they had been man and, wife
for nearly two years, the birth of a se-
cond child added to his responsibilities.
Helen was again with them, and a few
days later I received a note from her to
say that her return to Whitebridge
was delayed by her sister's condition.
It was easy to read between the lines
that it gave her cause for some
I waited eagerly for her next letter;
she had promised to report to me the
turn that affairs took.
For nearly a week no further tid ings
came, and then a hurried line reached
me to the effect that Lillian was dan-
gerously ill.
It seemed to me no intrusive step,
under the circumstances, to present
myself at the house, and the same day
I took a ticket to London, arriving at
St. Pancras in the afternoon, and
driving to the address in West Kens-
ington at once.
I was a little dismayed, when the
cab stopped, to find the place a rather
shabby lodging. Helen had never
gone into details with me, aud I had
assumed that they were living in a
house of their own. The fly-blown
pasteboard bearing the legend “Fur-
nished Apartments,” the slipshod ser-
vant, and the dirty passage were a rev-
elation which momentarily made me
doubt the delicacy of my visit.
In response to my inquiry, I was
shocked to learn that Mrs. Saymore
was vot expected to last the day, and
giving the girl my card, I was on the
point of turning away, when Helen
came down the stairs,
“Oh, she exclaimed, “this is good—
this is kind of you 1”
She gave me her hand, and I pressed
it in token of my sympathy.
“You have heard——?" she falter
“I am bitterly, terribly grieved,” I
answered. “Still, let us hope and
pray for the best. And the child ?”
“The child is doing well,” she said ;
“but Arnold's agony is appalling. He
will scarcely look at it ; he blames the
poor little mite for Lillian’s danger.”
“A man’s sorrow must always
of marriage without any of its joys.
When I presented myself at the
house again I was asked to enter, and
the maid-of-all-work supplemented the
invitation by saying-—
«Mrs. Seymour is dead.”
Prepared in a measure as I had been
for it the intelligence dealt me a severe
blow. I felt my face turn white, and
for a moment 1 could not reply.
“Dead |” Isaid at last. “Whendid
it happen ?"
“The pore lady died about a hour
after you went, sir,” she answered ;
“and Mr. Séymour he's just took on
Helen came in as she was speaking.
Her eyes were red with weeping, and
for a few seconds after the servaat’s
withdrawal we were both silent.
When [tried to express my compas-
sion she silenced me, in pity for the
effort :—
“I know,” she murmured, “there is
no need—I know !”’
She sank inte an armchair, and I
stood on the hearth, watching her.
The clock ticked loudly, and confused
me; I could still think of nothing to
say. But it was she *who broke the
pause, and I who was required to lis-
ten. She was good enough to tell me
she wanted my advice, and, though
this was scarcely the truth, she gave
me her confidence, which was honor
“What is it about ?”’ I inquired.
“Jt is about Arnold—about the
children,” eaid she. “Something
must be done at once. He has no
means to give them a home, and it
would be preposterous besides to leave
such young children to a man’s care.”
“You must not haraes yourself with
matters of that sort yet awhile.” I in-
terposed ; “we will discuss everything
“It is not so sudden as you may
imagine,” sbe answered. We had
looked for my poor girl's death this
three days.” She sobbed, and turned
aside a little. “I have seen for some
time that the children must come to
me ; I want tc know what you think
of the plan ?”
“Have you suggested it to Mr.
mour himself ?”’
“Not yet: but he cannot refuse,” she
“It will be very—very hard on you,
Miss Townsend.”
“Hard? On me? Ah, no, it will be
hard on the father who must let them
go. It is that that makes makes me
reluctant to propose it. To lose his
wife and part from his children at one
fell swoop, it seems cruel !” ;
“May I speak quite freely?’ 1 de-
“If you please.”
“Is he, then, not in a position to re-
tain them if he wishes it? His income
is not decreased in any way by this
sad event. What he could do before,
it appears to me he might do still.
Pecuniarily he does not suffer.”
“You do not understand,” she said.
“There have been complications all
the time.”
“And you?’ I ventured next.
“Forgive me, but, if I follow yon exact-
ly, the cost of the children’s mainten—
ance would devolve upon yourself.
Can you afford it either?”
“J” She smiled sadly. “It will bea
joy to me! I do not commit many
extravagances; I am entitled to one, I
think, without comment. Besides,
Arnold will assist, of course, when he
is able. My, idea is this: that he
should be tree of the cares that have
weighed upon him so heavily during
the last two years; that he should live
as a single man until his practice im-
proves. He can give up these rooms;
he can live cheaply and easily at one
half of the expense he is put to now.
He will feel new born when his misery
begins to fade a little. The duns, the
bills, the perpetual effort to pay ten
pounds out of a five pound note, all
that will be a thing of the past with
hin. Before you go you must see him,
if it is only for an instant; you will be
startled at the alternation the worries
have made in his appearance. I pro-
pose to give him a fresh lease of life, to
give his talents scope to exert them-
selves. Poor fellow, he has been crip-
pled and bound by all his anxieties.
And then I love the little ‘ones; and I
loved her. Who should take care of
my darling’s babies but I?”
What could I answer? though in
my own mind I thought that for the
support of Arnold Seymour's children
to devolve upon the woman he had not
married was the cruellest irony of fate...
I shook the widower by the hand
less cordially than had been my wont,
and returned home by an early train
next morning. A fortnight later Helen
took up her residence in Whitebridge
once more, and turned the room in
which she was accustomed to write into
a nursery.
The children thrived and grew sturdy
under her care. She lavished on these
two little nieces a wealth of tenderness
and solicitude that rendered ber spins-
terhood un even mere pathetic sight to
witness than it had been before. She
was a wother to them in the highest,
the noblest meaning of the word. And
And as the children grew strong and
gay, so more and more of Helen's youth
seemed to vanish froma her. It was as
if the lives she watched absorbed it;
as if, like parasites, they flourished on
the stem they sapped, When they had
blame something.” I said, a shade been with her for two years there was
gententiously. “Is she conscious ?”
“No not since early this morning.”
I asked if there was anything I
could do. She thanked me, and an-
swered that there was not.
“You will not go back to White:
bridge to day ?"" ebe questioned.
*To morrow,” I' declared ; “and to-
vight I will just. come to the door
again, in hope of better news.”
As I was taking my leave the un-
tidy servant girl hurried to Helen with
some mumbled message and a slip of
paper ; and I saw Helen's hand go in-
an additional sedateness in ber man-
ner ; when they had been with her for
five, she no: longer looked a young
woman. Indeed, she no longer regard:
ed herself as a young woman ; she
spoke of things “unbefitting to my
age.” Yet she was more beautiful
than ever ; more than ever 1 loved
ber; more than ever, I was secretly
convinced, her own heart belonged to
the man who had not guessed the
tenderness he had inspired.
He was latterly, I gathered, making
some progress in his profession ; and [
to her pocket and extract a purse. I gathered it from the fact that during
descended the steps with my heart the last twelve months Helen had
heavy for this woman, who, having
failed to attract the man she loved,
had yet so much of the responsibilities
several times spoken to me proudly
of remmittances that he had sent.
Previously she had omitted all men-
| tion of his promised assistance, and it
| had not needed much acumen on my
part to understand that the promise
was not being fulfilled. Her silence
on the point and the redoubled as
siduity with which she worked were
explicit enough.
On the few occasions upon which he
had run down to the village I had
geen but little of him, though he appear-
ed to see me. His well-cut clothes, his
admirable boots and hat, his silver
headed walking cane itself, jarred upon
me, contrasting them with the rigid
economy of the woman who supported
his children. I know, however, that
he wrote to her frequently, and did not
fail to express his gratitude and ap-
.preciation to her in well-balance pe-
riods, which she thought as beautiful
as they were undeserved. Now that he
was actually sending a little money to-
wards the expenses she held him a
veritable hero, rising, Phcwnix-like,
above the misfortunes of a malignant
Yes, it is quite the truth that to his
sister-in-law Arnold Seymour was a
hero. She reread his letters; she
prayed for his success ; his little girls
believed him the most noble man who
had ever lived. She talked to them of
their father in a voice which, to me
who listeued, was a confession of her
love. When he was coming to see
them her eyes would sparkle, her
cheeks would flush, almost she was
young again, More than once I had
been tempted to plead my cause with
her anew, and always unconsciously
she would in this way give me my an-
swer before I spoke. What she antici-
pated—whether she anticipated any-
thing—I could not judge, but that she
still loved Arnold Seymour with all
her soul I had no manner of doubt.
One afternoon when I went to see
her she told me she had beard from
him by the morning’s post. She was
quite gay. Thechildren were romp-
ing in the garden, where, seven years
before, I had asked her to be my wife,
and she and I sat chatting by the win-
“He is coming down,” she said,
with a delighted tremor in her tones ;
“he will be here by tea-time. You
must stay and meet him.”
I made some objection, but she
overruled it.
“He would be hurt,” she said, “if
you ran away. He even refers to you
in his letter. Take down a book from
the shelves, and amuse yourself while
I make the chicks nice and smart for
She called them in, and retired with
them upstairs, whence I could bear
laughs ahd splashings. The servant
came in with the tea-things, and laid
the table with the best service and lit-
tle glass bowls full of fiowers, in whose
arrangement I detected the handiwork
of Helen, The brilliancy of thejday
was subsiding, and the fruit trees
beyond were mellowed in the radiance
of the declining sun. The breath of
the hay blew in with the light breeze.
It was very charming when Arnold
Seymour sauntered up the path. Noth-
ing was incongruous but Arnold Sey—
He was go kind as to profess himself
enchanted to find me there, though,
when I looked at Helen's eyes as she
greeted him, I could easily have wished
myself away.
He kissed his daughters ardently,
and produced for their delectation
some trifling presents from his bag.
“As a matter of fact, old fellow,” he
said to me, “I was coming round to
your quarters to see you presently.
And I want you to put me up for the
night, if you will ; we can have a talk
together, you and I.”
To Helen he said, “Send the child:
ren away for awhile, will you? We
can get on better without them.”
I took this as a hint to make my de-
parture, but he detained me.
After all, you may just as well hear
what I have to say now,” he observed.
“Helen won’t mind, [ am sare.”
I resumed my seat, and he lit a cig-
arette before continuing.
“Helen,” he said, ‘and you, my dear
fellow, you are the two best friends I
have in the world. Qae of you is the
sister of my poor wife, and the other
introduced me to her. When I loet
her, life seemed finished to me; and I
have no hesitation in declaring that
everything I have to day is due to the
tenderness of the woman who has been
a comrade to myself ard a mother to
my babies.”
He flickered the ask off the cigarette,
and paused a moment I took advan-
tage of the pause to lift my eyes from
the floor and glance at Helen, whose
color was fluttering in her cheeks.
‘But Helen, here’ he pursued, ‘Hel-
en, whom the world calls my sister-in-
law, but whom I, as I have said, call
my ‘comrade,’ I should now have been
an adventurer in the Colonies. She
took my children, she permitted me to
continue my profession, she has been
loyal and tender and devoted. I owe
her so much that [ am glad, and in-
deed proud, to acknowledge it before
another—to have another present to
see how I have come to herto-day.’
‘Arnold I’ she said, and something I
had never seen there before was in her
‘I am succeeding,’ said Arnold, ‘by
glow degrees I am making a respecta-
ble practice ; and I propose to take a
step which I want to discuss with you.
Helen I am anxious to marry again ;
but you have been everything to me,
and I cannot do it without your sanc-
tion and approval. It will advance
me very much in my profession, the
marriage I project ; it will bring me
many briefs, and, later on, in all prob-
ability, a very fine appointment. Bat
if you think I should be wronging
your sister's memory. if you think I
should be bebaving badly to the
children in giving them a stepmother,
I will waive my interests, and my af-
tection for the lady and obey your
wish. There is nothing to cry for—I
will obey your wish.”
I bad not known she was crying, for
I could not look, ;
‘Answer me,’ he said ; ‘what is your
view ?’
‘The tears came at the. thought of
parting with the children,” Helen
murmured ; ‘and they were foolish,
selfish tears!’
‘I can bring them up very different-
ly, it I marry,’ they will have every
advantage that wealth can give.”
I got up, and looked out of the win-
dow. The sunset had faded, mund
shadows were falling upon the trees
and flowers.
For a second neither the man nor
the woman behind me spoke. Only,
the wind, which had risen moaned a
little among the "boughs.
‘I pray that you may be very, very
Bary 1” the voice I loved said stead-
And, turning, I asked Seymour to
give me one of his cigarettes, in order
that Helen might suatch a moment to
look out of the window too. =
The Question of the Hour.
Every Person is Interested Now In Making The
Dollars go Far.
“Take carg of the pence and the
pounds will take care of themselves,”
is a maxium that is peculiarly appli-
cable to these hard times. Wasteful-
ness at ali times is foolish ; it is worse '
than that now when thousands are
sufelop for lack of the necessaries of
The Pittsburg Times is an object lesson
in proper economy. It presents one of
the chief necessities of life all the news
at the lowest possible cost, Notwith-
standing the fact that The Pittsburg
Times is gold for only one cent a day,
the claim is made for it that it is the
most complete newspaper printed in
Pittsburg ; that every occurrence of hu-
man interest in every part of the globe
is promptly reported in its columns;
that it is essentially a paper for the
home, everything of an objectionable
character being excluded ; that it is the
only paper in Pittsburg whose market
reports are reliable and revised every
day in the week ; that it is the only
Pittsburg newspaper which prints dai-
ly a carefully prepared department for
the ladies, and once a week a report,
prepared by experts, of special interest
to agricultural readers; and, finally, it
is the only Pittsburg newspaper which
prints daily the highest class of fiction.
In addition to all this, The Times
offers to all its readers at a nominal
cost the opportunity of securing one of
the highest class magazines printed in
the country, and to the ladies their
choice during the year 1894, of twelve
of the most approved paper patterns,
with privilege of selecting from a list
of 50,000. Send for a sample copy of
The Times, which will be mailed you
free and see how their promises are
fulfilled. If there is no agent for The
Times in your locality a profitable
business can be established by writing
for the agency.
When a Boycott is Legal.
en re
PHILADELPHIA, January 2.—Justice
Dean in the supreme court to-day de-
clared an opinion which defines the le-
gality of a boycott. It was in the case
of George M. Cote against Hugh Mur-
phy and others from the common pleas
court of Allegheny county, and the de-
cision reverses the judgment ot the low-
er court. The plaintiff obtained
$1,500 damages from the defendants
on the grounds that the latter ‘‘by un-
lawful and successful conspiracy in-
jured him in his business.”
The defendants were members of the
Planing Mill association of Allegheny
county and of the Pittsburg Builder's
exchange. The plaintiff and six other
dealers refused to join the defendants
in boycotting contractors who conced-
ed to the demands of strikers in
May, 1891, and the members of the as-
sociation then refused to sell them ma-
terial. In reversing the judgment the
supreme court decided that when the
trade associations boycott contractors
and dealers who encourage strikes and
concede to the striker’s demands, and
when such associations extend such a
boycott is legal.
Gotham’s Bridge of Sighs.
It Will Connect the Criminal Court House With
the Tombs.
The New York bridge of sighs, which
is nearly completed and will be put in-
to practical use soon after the New
New Year, will connect with the fa-
mous old Tombs prison. It is of solid
iron, with no woodwork on it, and
hangs some fifty feet above the street.
Over this prisoners will be conveyed
from the Tombs to the court house for
trial of sentence.
Just within the court house is an iron
barred room, as sclid as any in New
York’s various prisons, where the un-
fortunates will await the caliing of their
cases. Then there will be no more cas-
es of prisoners escaping while being
transferred from prison to court.
The bridge is an exact ‘reproduction
of the famous Ponte dei Sospiri, or
Bridge af Sighs, in Venice, which con-
nects the Doge's palace with the prison.
That bridge was built in the year 1589
by Da Honte and is one of the land-
marks of the old world, having been
perpetuated in prose and verse.
One of Japan’s Jewels.
The great attraction of Kamakura,
and one of the jewels of Japan, is the
Daibutsu, or great bronze Buddha. We
approach it through a three lined ave-
nue and get the first and best view of is
at a distance of some 200 feet. Itis a
sitting figure, 49 feet 7 inches high, 97
foet 2 inches in circumference. The
face is 8 feet 5 inches long and from ear
to ear 17 feet 9 inches wide. The eyes,
which are pure gold, are nearly 2 reet
long. The circumference of the thumb
is 3 feet. These figures give some idea
of the size, and the figure is elevated on
a stone platform some 12 to ‘15 feet
above the person approaching it. But
no description can convey an ides of the
majesty of the face. Itis bent gently
forward as if in brooding contemplation
of the infinite. It represents perfect
peace— the repose of the attained Nir.